


A Place Where Nothing Moves

by imogenbynight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Boats, Child Neglect, Community: deancasbigbang, DCBB 2014, Dean/Cas Big Bang 2014, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Minor Character Death, Original Mythology, Sexual Content, Supernatural AU - Freeform, Supernatural Elements, Violence, boat mechanic!Dean, minor animal injuries, veterinarian!Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 12:05:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 49,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2651429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imogenbynight/pseuds/imogenbynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1991, after the most frightening day of his short life, Dean’s family was split down the middle. His mother left. His brother, too. For the remainder of his youth, he had nothing but his increasingly distant father, a life constantly uprooted, and the book Sam left behind. A book that spoke of a light on the ocean and the terror that longed to breach it.</p><p>Now, seventeen years later in the small fishing town of Jackpine Harbor, Maine, the appearance of a strange light on the horizon and a rash of storms set off memories of the day he’d rather forget, and the town’s newest resident, a veterinarian named Castiel Shurley whose apparent hatred of Dean is neither founded nor avoidable, is just one more thorn in his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The [wonderful art](http://alt69.livejournal.com/21755.html) for this fic was created by [suchacat](http://suchacat.tumblr.com/) (aka [alt69](http://alt69.livejournal.com/)) and I feel so, so, so lucky to have been paired up with such a talented artist. They really brought this story to life with their gorgeous work, and I honestly couldn’t be happier with how it has turned out, so thank you!
> 
> Also, a whole lot of gratitude goes out to [theinevitableblastwave](http://theinevitableblastwave.tumblr.com/), who helped me whip this unruly beast into shape with her awesome beta skills. Thank you especially for saving me from all my screenwriting-induced fragments (god, how I struggle with prose) and for weeding out the few pesky Australianisms that managed to weasel their way in despite all my best efforts. Any errors that remain are, in the words of Robert Plant, nobody's fault but mine.
> 
> Lastly, thanks to [deathbycoldopen](http://deathbycoldopen.tumblr.com/), for the many productive writing dates and for constantly inspiring me to grow as a writer, and to everyone at the Meta Saloon. Your patience while I muttered vaguely about boats for the past few months has been impressive, to say the least ♥

 

**Corpus Christi, Texas**   
**August 1982**

  
The sailboat is a charter named Artemis, and she's a beauty.  
  
Lying on her stomach on the deck, Mary Winchester tilts her head to look at her husband where he leans at the helm, his dark hair damp from the sea.  
  
They're floating south of Corpus Christi, enjoying one last day of their vacation out on the water. In a few short hours, they'll return the boat to the old man at the dock, scrub the salt spray from their skin, and then in the morning they'll start the long drive back to Kansas. Back home; back to real life.  
  
Mary doesn't want to think about it.

Now, the Texas summer sun beats down on her shoulders, and beyond the music winding from the radio she can hear the gentle lap of the ocean on the sides of the sailboat she's currently pretending she owns. With a blissful kind of warmth in her veins, she takes in the calm of the moment and hums happily along to the song.

It's their first vacation since they got married, and it's just what they've both needed to unwind. She loves John, but his inability to healthily manage stress and his increasingly short temper have put a strain on things lately.

So maybe it's only been a week, but the quiet and the sea have worked wonders. They haven't fought in days.

Though they both miss their two year old son, Dean—left in Lawrence to be doted on by his grandparents—Mary knows that neither of them particularly want to go home just yet. This week has been perfect. Like old times. Better times.

John looks more like himself than he has in months. His skin is tanned and his demeanor softened, but even the best of vacations wouldn't be enough to warm him up to soft rock. As Mary watches him, he glowers in the direction of the radio.

"The hell are we listening to?" he asks.

Mary beams at him, laying her head back down on her folded arms.

"I like Foreigner," she says, and that's the end of it. No argument. No snide remarks about her taste in music.

In a distant kind of way, she's aware that this should be the norm, but she tries not to dwell on it. Instead, she daydreams about some time in the hopefully-not-far-off future, when they'll figure out their money troubles, and John's stress will melt away, and they'll spend all their afternoons like this. Happy and calm.

When John eventually leaves the helm to settle down beside her, Mary reaches for his hand. He takes it and she smiles.

The next few hours pass peacefully, the wide blue expanse of sky above them empty save for the occasional gull and a lone, circling, dark-feathered seabird that Mary could swear is an albatross, but which John insists is unlikely off the Texas coast.

Around four o'clock in the afternoon, just after they've finished pulling up the anchor to start heading for the docks, another boat cruises by. Mary leans out into the light breeze to wave cheerfully toward the man at it's helm. He waves back, and  Mary looks over at John with a smile.

"Someday," she tells him, tucking her hair behind her ear, "we should get a boat."

"Sure, I'll get to work on winning the lottery," John jokes, and she laughs, making her way toward him. She's halfway across the deck when a sudden, violent gust of wind makes the sails billow out wide, and before she has a chance to even consider ducking, the boom swings forward. It strikes her hard in the chest, knocking the air from her lungs, and the force sends her staggering. Vaguely aware of the sound of John shouting her name, trips, stumbles, topples over the edge of the boat and hits the water headfirst with a hard slap that leaves her disoriented and dazed. Her lungs burn for oxygen.

She sinks like a stone.

She's at least ten feet down before she fully understands what has happened, her head spinning with the sudden pressure change and a lack of air, andas she scrambles in the water she feels a presence. Like she's being watched. Being hunted. She tries to pull herself nearer to the surface, but her body feels loose and useless, her arms too long, like they're not quite her own, and she only sinks deeper.

 _I'm dying_ , she thinks, _this is death._

With the thought, everything comes down to a single point, a single bright spot in the dark water that she thinks might be the sun.

The crawling fear that overcomes her is like a physical sensation, and she tries harder still to swim toward the light. But there's a face there, now. Far off in the distance, and then at once inches from her own. A man's face. Eyes glinting bright like sunlight refracted through waves. He's in the water, but he looks dry. Like there's a pocket of air surrounding him.

“Do you need help?” he asks placidly, as if Mary weren't desperately trying to keep from drowning, and though she knows it doesn't make sense his voice is clear as crystal. She tries to answer; nothing comes.

“I can save you,” he tells her with a smile, “would you like me to save you?”

Mary's vision fades in and out. Blinking. She's just blinking.

Her head spins. Her movement slows.

“I'll even sweeten the deal,” the man goes on, “give you a little something to remember me by. A gift. Would you like that, Mary?”

Somewhere in the back of her mind she wonders how he knows her name, but her fingers are growing numb, tingly and strange, so she nods. Her hair floats around her head in a wave of gold. With long, pale fingers, the man reaches up to push it back from her face.

“I need you to say yes.”

 _Yes_ , she thinks, and nods again. Mouths the word, and one last bubble of air leaves her body, rippling up, up, up to burst on the surface. He smiles. As he moves forward to press his mouth over hers, to breathe warmth and light and air into her lungs, she thinks, absurdly, of an executioner.

She can still feel his lips on hers when she wakes to a saltwater sting in her eyes, seashells and stones digging into her hips where they're pressed into the sand. Hands slip-slide against her arms and she thrashes, struggling to push them away before she recognizes them. John's hands. With effort, she blinks her eyes open to see him soaked and wild.

“Mary!” he says, desperate and probably not for the first time, and she gasps in a breath that she chokes on.

She coughs and sputters, leaning sideways to spit water and sand onto the beach, and finally has enough presence of mind to realize that she's digging her fingernails into John's forearm. She relaxes her grip, heaving in air.

“I'm okay,” she says finally, voice rough and throat scratched raw, “I'm okay.”

“I thought I lost you,” John says through a sob, pulling her up to sitting and wiping sand away from her cheeks before he wraps her up tightly in a bright towel, “I really thought I lost you.”

Over his shoulder, the sun at the horizon is blinding yellow. Mary stares at it until her eyes sting.

“I'm okay,” she says again, stroking a trembling hand through his hair, “I'm fine.”

As night falls over the beach, she holds her husband and puts the thought of the presence in the water out of her mind. It's years before she lets herself consider the possibility that it really happened.

By then, she's given birth to a second son, and it's far too late.

The damage has been done.

 

 


	2. Childhood Fears

**Lawrence, Kansas**   
**April 1991**

Gripping the legs of his Ninja Turtles pajamas in clammy, twelve-year-old fists, Dean stands at the top of the staircase and listens to his parents fight. His heart is racing, and his eyes are wide, and he's bracing for the sound of a slamming door. Just in case.

He's supposed to be asleep, having been sent to bed an hour ago when the old cuckoo clock in the hallway twittered ten times, but not five minutes after his door was closed he heard the argument start. For a long time, he lay there in the dim filtered moonlight waiting for them to stop. They only got louder.

The hallway light was near blinding when he first stepped out of his room, and his eyes stung for the first few seconds as he quietly made his way toward the top of the stairs. They still sting now, though it's from fearful, unshed tears rather than excess light.

A bitter laugh floats up the stairwell in his dad's low voice, and when his mom speaks again she sounds more upset than he's ever heard her.

"Do you think I would have brought this up if I wasn't sure?"

"I don't know what the hell to think," his dad replies, and Dean hears the rattle and clink of bottles as he opens the fridge door. The pop-hiss-fizz of a beer being cracked open. He gulps and strains to listen.

He's heard kids talking at school, and he knows it starts like this. It starts with drinking, then moves on to shouting, then slamming doors, and sometimes, slamming fists.

His dad, he knows, has never hit his mom. He wouldn't, Dean is almost certain. But he still worries, because he's seen the vein throb in his father's neck. The way his fist sometimes curls at his hip until he realizes what he's doing and forcefully relaxes it. 

So he's never lashed out before, but he _might_ , and so whenever Dean hears them fighting like this he's ready to fake sickness or a bad dream or just trip down the stairs. Something to make them stop, to make sure nothing bad happens. To make sure his family doesn't end up like that one kid at school, whose weekends were split between houses until they weren't allowed to visit one of their parents at all anymore.

Usually, his parents fights are about stupid little things like dishes being left in the sink, but tonight, the topic makes absolutely no sense, and now his mom's voice is shaking. Dean crouches to look through the stair railing, and sees them in the kitchen.

“John, I have to—”

“What?” his dad says back, lifting a book in his hand and shaking it, “fill Sam's head with this hocus pocus bullshit? Brainwash our son like you let that crazy old b—”

“She is _not_ crazy,” his mom hisses, cutting him off and snatching the book out of his hand, “and neither am I.”

His dad doesn't respond. Across the room, his mom takes a breath before she speaks again. Quieter. Calmer.

“Don't you remember Corpus Christi?” she says, and she sounds as though she's trying to reason with him, “I should have died, John."

Despite knowing that whatever happened to his mom must have turned out okay, those words make Dean's stomach flip wildly. His legs feel a little weak, and his blood rushes in his ears loud enough that he almost misses her next words.

"I was drowning. I _drowned_ .”

His dad doesn't answer for a long moment. He picks up his beer from the counter and turns it in his hand.

“How long was I under?” his mom goes on, and gets no response. His dad just closes his eyes and raises the bottle to his lips. “How long, John?”

“Mary—”

“It was more than an hour. I should have _died_.”

There's a crash and shatter as the beer bottle hits the sink, and Dean's entire body jerks. He grips the railing and watches his dad's hands clench into fists.

“Drop it, Mary, or I swear—”

“This isn't up to you,” she says icily, and then she moves out of Dean's view. The screen door slams.

“Shit,” his dad swears, low, and pounds his fist against the countertop, the sound heavy and dull.

Dean watches him for a moment as he breathes deeply, leaning hard against the sink, and eventually opens the fridge for another drink. He twists the bottle open sharply, tosses the cap in the sink, and disappears into the living room.

The sound of canned laughter echoes through the house.

With a nervous feeling in his stomach, Dean makes his way back to his bedroom, pulling back the curtain to press his face to the cool window glass. Down in the back yard he can see his mom standing by the apple tree, her back lit up by the yellow light from the kitchen. Her hands are braced against the back of her head. Her shoulders are shaking. Instinctively, Dean knows she's crying.

He wants to go to her, but there's no way to get downstairs and past his dad without being seen, and before he can come up with a different route the creak of his half-open bedroom door catches his attention.

“Dean?”

His brother is sleepy-eyed in the doorway, his hair sticking up on one side, and he's carrying his stuffed German Shepherd, Moose, under one arm. He looks back out of the room, toward the stairs. In the living room, John slams something down, his beer or the remote control or something else, thrown in anger and frustration. Sam flinches at the noise, and outside, a few stray raindrops patter against the rooftop.

“What's going on?” he asks, and Dean has no answers for him. Reaching out, he tugs on Moose's ear until Sam knocks his hand away, clutching the toy more tightly against his chest.

"You want to read Matilda?"

Glancing toward the stairs, Sam raises one shoulder in a shrug as their dad thunders around in the kitchen, and the rain grows a little heavier against the window. Gently, Dean herds his brother back to his room.

"Big day tomorrow," he reminds him, and that, thankfully, distracts him.

"Jesse and Brady are gonna come bowling," he says, all gap-toothed excitement, and Dean ruffles his brother's hair as he climbs back into bed.

"Yeah they are," he agrees. "You'd better get some sleep."

 

* * *

  
From the back seat of the Impala, Dean watches the smooth wave of his mother's hair rippling in the breeze as she drives them home. Beside him, Sam grins excitedly, half bouncing in his seat because it's his birthday in a few days time, and they've just spent their Sunday afternoon at the Lawrence bowling alley, knocking down pins with all Sam's friends.   
  
According to his mom, his dad had been called in to the garage for some emergency repairs on a regular customer's truck, and it's been a good day with just his mom and his brother and an assortment of kids. The day has been good enough that Dean has managed to put the memory of last night's overheard argument out of his mind, and he's smiling quietly to himself when they pull into the driveway.

Missouri Moseley, their next door neighbor and occasional babysitter, is on the front porch, looking unusually grim.

She comes down the steps to greet them, stopping with her ever present leather loafers pressing into the patchy dry grass. Missouri, Dean knows, tells peoples fortunes in the front room of her house, and according to his dad she’s a scam artist. His mom, on the other hand, thinks she’s wonderful.

She doesn’t look like a psychic is supposed to look. No flowing scarves or weird jewelery; just regular clothes like his teachers wear, and a purse to rival Mary Poppin’s suitcase for all its contents.

“Missouri,” his mom says, climbing out of the driver’s seat, “are you alright?”

“Oh, I'm fine,” Missouri tells her, smiling, and all traces of the worry on her face seem to melt away, “I just came to give young Sammy here something for his birthday.”

“You didn't have to do that,” his mom says, and Missouri waves her hand as if to say _nonsense_.

“Come on now, you know I've got no babies of my own. I'll spoil both these boys until they graduate, and maybe even then.”

She opens her arm out toward Sam, and Dean nudges him in the ribs until he goes to her, accepting the hug.

“Anyhow,” she says with a smile, “it's educational, so I'm not really spoiling him.”

At that, Dean sees his mom's eyes widen slightly, but she nods as if in understanding of some previous discussion.

“We have cake if you'd like to join us.”

Missouri smiles again.

“I'll be right in,” she says.

Dean watches the whole exchange with a frown. Sam, too distracted by the package wrapped in brown paper and tied with a bright gold ribbon, doesn’t notice a thing.

While Dean is enlisted by his mom to help carry in the bags from the car, Missouri ducks down to give Sam his gift.

Dean walks back outside a moment later to see his brother standing on the lush green lawn--and he could have sworn it was brown and dry before--holding a bronze pendant and an old, leathery book with _The Ether Bright_ embossed in curling gold on the dark cover. It looks far too grown up for an eight year old, but then again, Sam's a precocious reader. He'll probably be finished with it in a week.

“You keep that close by,” she's saying as Dean comes to a stop beside them, “alright?”

“Yes, Missouri. Thank you.”

“You're welcome, honey.”

She presses a kiss to his cheek, and Sam squirms in exaggerated embarrassment, laughing as he bats her hand away from ruffling his hair.

“You boys get inside, now,” she says, straightening up and shooing them as she turns back toward her own house, “and tell your Mom I'll be right there. I just need to lock up.”

They're halfway up the steps when they hear Missouri cry out, and when they turn, she's being shoved roughly aside by a man with stringy blond hair that Dean doesn't recognize.

“Mary!” Missouri shouts, “Mary! It them, it's—”

The same man strikes the back of Missouri's head with the butt of his shotgun, and her eyes roll back in her head as she falls to the ground with a thud. There's a sickening crack when her face meets the pavement, and Dean is staring down at her in shock when he feels a hand close around his wrist.

“Dean!”

Sam is beside him, wide eyed and terrified, and though his grip on Dean's arm is tight his gaze is fixed on the two men in the yard. One is a hulking, burly guy with a thin mustache and heavily freckled nose, and the other--the blond guy who hit Missouri--is just as tall but considerably leaner; more like a basketball player than a pro-wrestler. Neither of them seem much older than teenagers, and despite the obvious advantage of height and weapons, Dean thinks wildly, _I can take them_.

The blond one prods Missouri with his toe. She doesn't move. He looks at Dean shielding Sam, and then over at the other guy.

“The younger one,” he says.

Sam pulls on his arm and they get up the stairs in time to collide with Mary as she barrels out of the house.

“What—” she starts, then cuts herself off when she sees the two men, “oh, God.”

Her hand flies to her throat when she notices Missouri, and she puts herself between the men and her sons, ushering them backward toward the front door.

“Dean, Sammy,” she says quietly, “run.”

“What?”

“Go through the back,” she says, “please. Just run. Take your brother, Dean. I'll find you.”

“But you—”

“I'll find you,” she says again, and then the men are on the stairs, too close, and Sam's hand is tight in his. Dean staggers backward as his mom grabs the back of the porch chair and shoves it toward them, sending the bigger one toppling back down the stairs as he stumbles out of it’s way.

The last thing Dean sees before he pulls Sam down the hallway, tripping over their discarded running shoes and Dean’s baseball mitt laying on the floor, is his mother fighting off the stringy-haired blond, scratching at his face with short, neat nails.

The kitchen still smells of the cake that she'd baked here thismorning, and Dean breathes it in as they run through. The screen door slams loudly, finally cutting off the sound of her struggle, and Dean drags Sam along behind him through the yard as a few fat drops of rain start to fall. As they squeeze through the gap between the hedges and the fence, he looks back to see the bigger guy advancing on the fence. He pulls Sam along, urging him to run faster, and soon enough they've ducked through a couple of yards and into the parkland behind the houses.

Sam drops the book Missouri gave him as they cut through the trees .

The rain gets heavier as they run, and while Sam makes low, fearful sounds like he's trying desperately not to cry, a storm starts brewing. The wind whips dust and leaves up from the ground to sting in their eyes as thunder rumbles overhead.

When it comes, the crackle of lightning is close and bright, and Dean looks back the way they’d come. Behind them, the trees seem denser, darker, more twisted.

He fights off the shudder that rolls through him, and looks back in time to see Sam stumble, tripping over his own feet and the rocks at the edge of the treeline. His hands fly out in front of him as he falls, and when he hits the ground they scrape on the stone. He lets out a pained gasp, and Dean helps him to his feet, dusting the grit from his bloody palms and making him pocket the pendant he’s still clutching.

It’s slow moving after that, and Dean can see Sam wince every time he takes a step, favoring his left leg. Though his own limbs ache Dean crouches down to lift him onto his back and pushes on, fueled by adrenaline. He doesn't know where they're going. He keeps running anyway.

  
  



	3. The Crow

It's an uneasy kind of daylight, yellow-gray and heavy.

 

Dean, overburdened with his brother's weight on his back, walks with slow purpose along the dark stones of the railway track. To his left, the river rushes by, muddy and brown. Ahead, the tracks go on and on.

He shifts Sam on his shoulders, and when he does, he hears a low whimper.

“Shh,” he murmurs, and keeps moving.

He's getting tired, and though they haven’t been going long, the muscles in his legs are already burning from overuse. For a moment, he considers stopping, resting, if only for a few minutes, but almost in reply to his thoughts a low rumble of thunder comes rolling through the air, sending a fresh wave of fear through his bones.

He ignores the ache in his knees, blinks back the burning tears in his eyes, and keeps moving. The thunder gets closer, the lightning brighter. Dean doesn't look back to see if they're being followed; he can't bring himself to.

Briefly, he had the idea that he should try to get them to their dad's auto shop, but he's never gone there on foot before, and everything looks different. He's got no idea where else they should go.

The railway tracks at least give him something to follow.

With every second that passes, he feels dread building, building, pushing from the depths of his stomach, rapidly rising until he's consumed by it, and the fear forces his lactic legs to move faster, faster, faster. The storm is even closer, now. Louder.

“You think you can walk again?” he asks Sam, low, and is relieved when he replies.

“Yeah, I think so.”

Dean slows for a moment to lower him to his feet, and it's as they start forward again that he sees a raven hop down onto the tracks ahead. It pecks at a discarded burger wrapper a few times before flapping away. Its movement carries his eye, makes him notice the old gray house on the other side of a half-fallen wire fence, sticking up out of the patchy dead grass like a tombstone.

“This way,” he tells Sam, and runs on.

There's a flier flapping against the wire when they crawl through a gap. The word _salvation_ printed in bold black script.

Dean remembers the word from a boring old bible movie he’d been forced to sit through at his grandparent's house, and as he rushes up the rickety stairs to try the handle on the closed door, he hopes its presence here is meaningful.

* * *

Inside, the smell of decay is heavy in the air, thick as molasses, and Dean makes sure Sam is covering his mouth with his sleeve before they go any further. The thunder overhead is closer than ever, loud enough to make the remaining glass rattle in the windows, and Dean is frantic as he scans the dark for someplace to hide. There's a door pulled half off its hinges on the wall to their right, and when he peers through it he can see dim light and a staircase leading down. Sam doesn't want to go.

"Do as I say or I'll make you," Dean tells him, echoing his father. He hates himself for it when he sees the look in Sam's eyes.

The thunder outside is getting louder, though, the rain heavier, the wind wilder. Without further argument, Sam goes through the door, one hand on the wall as he slowly makes his way down into the basement. There's a narrow window near the ceiling, boarded over but for a three-inch gap along the bottom, and through it Dean can hear the low whine of wind curling through the cracks.

On the floor by the stairs is a damp, moldy old mattress, the shattered remains of a beer bottle, and a rusted metal gardening stake. Dean skirts the first two and picks up the third, just in case. He's pretty sure they weren't followed. Pretty sure isn't quite enough, though.

Sitting in the dark, Sam at his side, Dean tells himself he's not allowed to cry. He's twelve years old--four years older than his brother--and he needs to be brave.

"Who were those men?" Sam asks him eventually, voice a low whisper, and Dean shakes his head.

"I don't know."

"Why were they there? Are Mom and Missouri okay?"

"I said I don't know, Sammy."

"How long do we have to stay here?"

"Shut up," Dean tells him, "or I'll leave you here."

It's an empty threat, but Sam stops asking questions. A few minutes pass before Dean realizes his brother is crying, and without a word he wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling him tightly against his side. The light fades slowly as the wind picks up, and by nightfall the sound of rain pouring heavily outside is loud enough to drown out everything but the thunder. In his pocket, Dean still has half a bag of peanut M&M's from the bowling alley, and he gives them to Sam when his stomach starts growling.

He leaves the room for a moment, creeping upstairs to empty his bladder into the non-functioning toilet, and when he comes back down he finds Sam sitting right where he left him, and a fire in the middle of the floor, flickering strange orange shadows around the room. He looks haunted.

“What the hell, Sam!” he yells, hurrying down the stairs, “how did you--”

“I didn’t!” Sam shouts back, staring at the flames that reflect in his eyes, dancing gold. “I promise, I didn’t!”

The mattress by the base of the stairs is thin but soggy, and with effort Dean heaves it up and lets it fall over the flames, snuffing them out in an instant. Heaving in a breath and choking on the musty smoke that fills his lungs, he waves his arm in front of his face and stares at his brother. Sam is still sitting up against the wall, his eyes wide and watery, and his voice is quiet when he speaks again.

“I didn’t-- I didn't do it,” he says, breath catching on a nervous hiccup. “It just… I was cold, and then… I didn’t do it.”

Dean doesn’t believe him for a moment.

Silently, he crosses the room, yanking Sam to his feet and searching all around him for the matches that he knows must be here somewhere, but there are none, and Sam’s pockets are empty besides the bouncy ball he won in the claw machine, the pendant Missouri gave him, and something sticky and disgusting that Dean thinks might have been a hard candy at some point in a previous life.

“I didn’t do it,” Sam says again, lower lip trembling, and Dean doesn’t talk to him again all night.

Around eleven, Sam finally falls asleep, his loud wheezing snores filling the tiny space, and Dean stays awake. He couldn’t sleep even if he tried. With fear in his heart, he grips the metal stake in his fist and watches the staircase, waiting.

The storm finally passes while Sam is sleeping, the rain dropping off to a quiet drizzle. When the sky begins to lighten again Dean gets up, creeping up the stairs to look outside. He's halfway up when he steps on a creaky board, and Sam wakes.

"Where are you going?"

"Just checking outside," Dean tells him, "I'll be right back. Don't start any fires."

Sam doesn't look happy, but he nods, and Dean squeezes out through the doorway, back into the house. The hallway is filled with dirt and leaves, rain spattered in a wide arc around the front door, blown open by the storm. It's quiet, though. The house undisturbed. When he peeks out toward the railroad tracks he sees nothing but barely-moving trees and pale orange dawn.

Downstairs, Sam is hunched around his knees in the corner. He's holding the pendant Missouri gave him, rolling it between his fingers.

"Coast is clear," Dean tells him, crouching down to his height. "I'm gonna go find out what's happening."

"You're going?"

"I won't be long," Dean says.

"Can I come too?" Sam asks, lip already starting to tremble, and Dean shakes his head.

"I'm not taking you back until I know it's safe."

"But--"

"No, Sammy. Promise me you'll stay put."

Sam chews on the inside of his cheek, staring at the floor, his eyes welling. Finally, with a gulp and a nervous shudder, he nods.

"Okay," he whispers, lifting his head as he tries to appear braver than he is; braver than any kid should have to be. "I promise."

* * *

It starts raining again when Dean heads outside, and he runs most of the way home, keeping to the railroad tracks . He only slows when he reaches the parkland that backs onto the houses near his own. The trees here are thick, and he treads carefully, wary of any sound.

He cuts through two backyards, squeezes between a fence and a tire-swing tree, and hurries across the street.

The house is silent when he gets there. There's no Impala in the driveway, no music rolling out the window. Missouri's house is just as empty. He stubbornly ignores the pit in his stomach as he creeps around the back, not letting himself dwell on how scared he is as he presses close to the wall, listening for any sound of movement inside. He hears none.

There's a spare key for the back door under a rock in the birdbath by the kitchen window , and Dean fishes it out. The cold water is slimy with age, and the chill of it numbs his fingers. When he reaches the door, he finds it unlocked, and hesitates, afraid that someone might be here. Waiting. Holding his breath, he listens hard for a long, drawn out minute. When he hears nothing, he tenses his jaw and steps inside.

The front hall bears signs of the scuffle.

There's a patch of dried blood on the wall, smeared by a hand too small to be one of the men that busted inside. Dean looks away as soon as he sees it, and tries to reassure himself that everything is going to be okay. A loud crack of thunder nearby shakes the foundations, and he moves faster.

Upstairs, the quiet is oppressive, and he moves swiftly across the carpet to his room. He puts on the army-green parka from their last camping trip and pulls open his desk drawer to get his flashlight, just in case. His school bag is by the door where he left it on Friday, and he upturns it on the floor before hurrying into Sam's room and shoving his parka inside.

Downstairs, he heads for the kitchen, stuffing the backpack with food—a loaf of bread, a crinkly packet of Kraft cheese slices, tortilla chips, a gallon bottle of cola, and after a moment’s deliberation, a bag of carrots from the bottom of the fridge. He might hate them, but Sam likes them, and he knows they can't survive on cheese sandwiches alone. Carefully, he drags a chair over from the table and reaches for the top of the fridge where his Dad keeps a jar of loose change and dollar bills and empties it into the front pocket of his backpack. The change jingles as he slips his arms through the straps, and he heads for the back door.

He's halfway there when he remembers his dad's fishing gear in the garage, and slips through the side door to grab the Swiss army knife from where he keeps it in the blue box with the tackle and lures. Just in case.

There's someone waiting for him in the backyard. One of the men from yesterday. His trucker cap is faded, frayed at the bill, and he lunges toward Dean, shouting out to someone he can't see.

“Tommy! The older one is here! Look for the kid!”

Dean surges forward, Swiss army knife in his hand, open to the corkscrew. He jams it in the guys thigh and twists. The guy yelps, eyes widening in shock.

"You little bastard," he growls, clutching at the knife, and Dean slips easily away from him.

Turning, Dean sees the other guy running toward him, and doesn't wait to find out what he wants. He bolts, grabbing his bike from where it's leaning against the side of the house, and pedals hard, riding three blocks before dumping it behind a hedge and cutting through another backyard, heading for the railroad.

Feet skidding on stones, Dean keeps running until his lungs burn. In the parkland behind the houses, he sees something gold reflecting in the sunlight, and on closer inspection recognizes it as Sam's birthday gift from Missouri. He pauses to grab it and shoves it into the front pocket of the backpack.

When he gets back to the abandoned house, thundering down the stairs, he finds the basement empty and his blood runs cold. There's no sign of a struggle. It's as though Sam just got up and walked out.

Missouri is on the porch when he steps outside, and Dean opens his mouth to insist he only left Sam for an hour, and she clucks her tongue at him.

“Boy, you keep your head. Your brother is fine. You remember my brother Harry?”

Dean nods.

“Your momma and daddy and Sam are all waiting with him,” she says, holding out her arm for Dean to duck underneath. “Come along, now."

  
  



	4. Praenuntia

Harry's house is an expensive looking red brick place on the other side of the river, and Missouri parks her dusty old Subaru in the street outside. When Dean moves to open the door, she reaches out for his arm.

“Hold on,” she says, looking at him levelly. “I know you're scared, honey. But things are going to turn out just fine."

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Dean nods, gripping the backpack on his knees. Missouri purses her lips as if she knows he doesn't believe her. She probably does.

"I want you to remember that. Okay? Everything is going to be alright in the end.”

“Why did—”

“I look like I take requests to you?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Good boy,” Missouri smiles, though it's a sad thing, pulling down at her eyes. “Now get on inside.”

Without another pause, Dean all but leaps out of the car to cross the front yard in a blur, racing up the steps and pressing the doorbell insistently. He holds his finger down hard, letting the chime sound repeatedly; a tinny _bing, bing, bing_ that seems to go forever until Missouri's brother opens the door. When Dean sees him in his button-down shirt, looking at him sternly, he remembers immediately that the man is a school teacher. Dean releases the doorbell.

“Sorry,” he says.

“Just glad you’re alright,” Harry says, and steps back to let him and Missouri inside.

John and Mary are standing in the hallway behind him. From the way his mom is angled away from his dad, and the barely concealed sneer on John's face, it's more than a little obvious that they've been fighting again. It's not until he gets a little closer that he sees his dad's eyes are red, and if he didn't know better, Dean would think he's been crying. As it is, he just looks angry.

As soon as Harry and Missouri have disappeared down the hall, talking in hushed tones in the kitchen, his dad descends on him, looming. Dean drops his backpack on the floor.

“Where the hell were you?” John demands, and shrugs off Mary's hand where it settles on his arm.

“I wasn't gone long,” Dean tells him, holding his chin high despite his shaking voice. “I swear.”

“You think that matters?”

“John—” Mary starts, and he cuts her off.

“Someone could have taken him.”

“Well they didn't!” Dean shouts back, all his fear shifting into anger. “And I had to find out what happened. We couldn't just sit there and wait for you to come find us, Dad. Sam was hungry and cold and we were alone and those… those men hurt Missouri, and we thought they got Mom and we were _alone_.”

Mary pulls him into a hug before he can say anything else. Though he can't see her face Dean can tell she's giving John the kind of look that could curdle milk. John doesn't respond other than by slamming the front door.

Over his mom's shoulder, at the top of the stairs, he can see Sam crouching to watch them with wide eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

“You okay, Sammy?” he calls out, pulling away from the hug.

Sam disappears around the corner, presumably heading for the room he's meant to be in right now instead of eavesdropping. Dean frowns. Mary smooths his hair down behind his ears.

“He's fine,” she tells him. “You did a good job looking after him, honey. Your dad's just... he was worried.”

"I know,” Dean says, even as a little part of him doubts it. “Who were those—”

“It's been taken care of,” Mary says, too cheerful for it to be sincere. “No need to worry.”

She smiles reassuringly, but appears to be holding something back. It makes Dean uneasy. He looks toward the front window of the house, where he can see John outside, leaning against the porch railing with a cigarette between his fingers and a stony glare on his face. Harry is standing stiffly beside him, watching the street.

Dean watches them both for a long moment before dragging his gaze away, and as he does he notices the inside of the front door. It's covered from floor to ceiling in strange symbols, twisting loops and sharp angles, painted in dark red. They make Dean's skin prickle. He gulps and looks back at his mom.

“What's going on?” he asks, and she just shakes her head, wiping her hand under her eyes where a few stray tears have run.

“It's fine,” she insists, standing up straight. “It'll all be fine.”

From the hallway that leads to the kitchen, Missouri clears her throat.

“I expect you're probably hungry,” she says holding out a hand to usher him down the hall. “Why don't you come see if Sam left you anything?”

With a glance at his mom, who smiles as she wipes her eyes again, Dean nods.

“Okay,” he says, but darts in to hug her again before he follows Missouri. No amount of adults telling him that everything is fine is going to make a bit of difference until they get back home, and right now home doesn't seem to be on the agenda.

In the kitchen there's a stack of sandwiches on the table, and he picks at the crust of one before his stomach rumbles loudly and he finds himself ravenous. Missouri stops him after three, and when he's finished off the tall glass of juice she set out for him, he yawns widely.

“There's a bed for you upstairs,” she says, “second door on the right. Go on up and get some shut eye.”

“Okay,” he says again, suddenly too tired to even argue, and after pausing to accept another hug from his mom and to grab the backpack from where he left it at the door, he shuffles up the stairs.

The second door on the right is closed firmly. In stark contrast to the rest of the house, which is neat and clean and orderly, it’s covered from top to bottom in strange, curving symbols, scratched and painted into the wood like the door downstairs. When Dean presses his finger to the symbol nearest the doorknob, it feels tacky and cool, like it had been added to the door only a few hours ago. His stomach does a strange little flip at that, and swallowing down his sudden and irrational fear, he turns the doorknob and pushes inside.

The room is quiet and dark with the thick curtains closed. Sam is sitting cross legged on one of two single beds with a book in his lap, reading in the dim light of a lamp. When Dean pushes the door open, he looks up quickly, almost guiltily, until he realizes who it is.

Before Dean knows it he has an armful of sniffling eight year old.

“I thought they got you,” Sam mumbles.

“They tried,” Dean admits. “I kicked their butts.”

When Sam pulls back, his nose is running and his eyes are wet, and he wipes both on the sleeve of his shirt. Dean drops his backpack.

“Mom and Dad were fighting again,” Sam says, rolling the pendant Missouri gave him between his fingers and staring at Dean as he shucks off the jacket.

“Don't worry about that,” Dean tells him.

“But they—”

“They were just worried,” Dean says, “but it's okay now. I promise.”

Sam looks doubtful, but after a long moment he nods, sniffs again, and returns to the bed he'd been sitting on.

Dean is asleep almost as soon as he lays down, and for a time he sleeps soundly. Peacefully. But the reprieve doesn't last, and his quiet dreams of baseball practice melt away as the basement of the abandoned house grows up around him, walls of peeling paint and rotted wood rising from the dirt, pushing up clumps of grass and soil as they heave upward, trapping him. Holding him. Sam is somewhere under the ground, he knows, and there’s a symbol pressed into the earth above him.

But Dean can’t reach him. Dean is alone.

He's alone, and there's a storm outside, battering against the dusty window. Water trickles through the cracks, then rushes, pouring in torrents too fast and turning the floor to thick mud that sticks to his shoes and crawls up his legs. Thick mud. Stinking mud. Cold air gathers in clouds before him, and the stairs are too far. The corner is empty, with only the symbol scrawled on the wall. The corner is empty. Sam is gone. _Sam is gone_. He can't breathe.

Sam is gone.

He wakes up gasping, tangled in the sweat-soaked covers of an unfamiliar bed with thin moonlight slanting into his eyes, and feels a nagging, insect itch under his skin. Rubbing his hand over his face and through his hair, he heaves out a breath and wills his heart to slow down, but the moment he looks at Sam's bed on the opposite side of the room it starts racing again. The bed is empty. Sam is gone.

 _He's probably in the bathroom_ , Dean tells himself, and lays back down with his pulse racing in his throat, eyes fixed on the crack of light under the door. He waits. The grandfather clock downstairs chimes eleven times, and he waits. It chimes again on the half hour.

Sam is gone.

Dean climbs out of bed and opens the bedroom door to peer out into the hallway. The house is quiet. His feet shush over the carpet. Downstairs, he finds his father standing in the living room by the window, a glass of whisky in his hand. Missouri's brother is sitting solemnly in an armchair, silent.

“Dad,” he says, his throat dry. “Sam is—”

“I know,” John tells him flatly. “Go back to bed.”

He doesn't turn around, and Dean feels cold all over. He pulls on the bottom of his tshirt.

“Where is he?” he asks, then glances around the room. “Where's Mom?”

“They're safe,” John says, which isn't an answer, and Dean hates it. “Do as you're told.”

Harry glances over at him, and he looks apologetic. John's hand is tight around the glass, and though he still hasn't turned around his voice leaves no room for disagreement. Dean nods, staring at the floor, and goes to the stairs. His feet feel cold, his stomach rolling, and when he gets to the bedroom it seems enormous. Cavernous. Empty.

He stands in the doorway with his hand on the rough wood of the frame, and stares at Sam's empty bed. There's something peeking out from under the pillow, glinting in the light from the hallway. With a steadying breath he walks over to it, pushing the cold pillow aside. A tiny, horned face made of bronze lays there on the blue blanket, and Dean recognizes it as the amulet Missouri gave him. It's cool to the touch, and when he picks it up it's heavier than it looks.

The leather cord is soft, and he slips it around his neck. _I'll give it to him tomorrow_ , he thinks, and goes back to bed.

  
  


* * *

Through the night, he hears cars in the street and tenses each time headlights flash through the curtains. Shortly after the downstairs clock chimes three, he hears an idling engine outside, and hurries to the window, pushing the curtains aside. It’s just a neighbor, dressed in nurses scrubs, coming home for the night. He’s about to pull the curtain closed again when he realizes the window is covered in more of those symbols from the door, and he steps back to look at them. The sight of them makes his pulse race, and without quite knowing why, he races back to bed to hide under the covers.

He doesn't sleep. Outside, birds sing with the dawn, and as the sun slowly grows brighter he hears movement downstairs.

He goes to the kitchen in sock feet, waiting in the doorway. His dad is sitting at the table, his head in his hands with an untouched cup of coffee in front of him. When he looks up, his eyes are red-rimmed and puffy.

“Get your things,” he says.

“Are we going home?”

“Get your things.”

They're in the car within a half an hour, and Dean sits in his usual place in the back. They go right past the turn off for Ironwood Drive, and Dean holds his tongue until they pass over the bridge toward the other side of the river.

“Where's Mom and Sam?” he asks, and is greeted with more silence. “Dad? Where are we going?”

John's hands tighten on the wheel.

“If you know what's good for you, you'll stop asking,” he growls, and the vague threat is enough to make him shrink back in on himself.

They drive for hours, heading south-east, and when his stomach starts grumbling Dean drags his backpack up from the floor to find the tortilla chips he took from his house. The leather bound book falls out when he pulls open the zipper. It's a kind of short novel, as far as he can tell, called _The Ether Bright_ , and he flips it open to read the first page.

> _When the wind bent the trees back far enough you could see a light, small and distant, that dipped below the horizon with every rising wave. It sang, as much as a light can sing, and the few sailors who claimed to have reached it told tales on the shore of a song so bright and heady that it could not be replicated with any instrument. Mostly, those sailors were lying, telling stories in exchange for another round of drinks. But there was one sailor who knew the true story. He tried to tell it more than once._
> 
> _Naturally, nobody was interested._
> 
> _Elias Maclay was the rough kind of man you might expect to find on board a fishing boat, and with him he carried the salt-spray chill of the ocean. For those few people who knew him well—and few they were—it was a strange quirk that they soon forgot to notice. For strangers, though, it made him somewhat frightening._
> 
> _The reason, of course, was that he was not a man in the strictest sense._
> 
> _Not quite one of the human race. He was something a little different, blessed with the spirit of the elements, and charged with the power to influence the world in a way that mortal men could only dream of._
> 
> _He was praenuntia, and the story, as he told it, started with a song._

Dean reads on, getting partway through the first chapter, but he can't focus with the pounding of the wind through the open window so he shoves it back into his backpack, determined to finish it later.

Halfway through the day they arrive in Danville, Arkansas. It's hot, and humid, and he's ushered into a house with a beaded curtain on the door and the smell of something strong and sweet in the air. The woman who opens the door is thin and shrewd. His dad doesn't seem to know her, and Dean is left in the front room with a girl who doesn't talk while they go into the kitchen. She watches him warily, blinking slowly in the stuffy room. When the quiet gets too much for him to handle he sits on the edge of the threadbare couch and pulls The Ether Bright from his backpack.

They leave within an hour, and John is carrying a set of keys. He's quiet. Dean asks again where they're going, where his mom and Sam are, as they drive through the town, and is shot down. He pushes down the sick feeling in his stomach and tells himself it'll be okay.

Everything will be alright in the end, Missouri had told him. He just hopes she was right.

  
  



	5. There's A Light

**Jackpine Harbor, Maine**   
**July 2008**

The smell of brine and motor oil clings to his hands, and as he slides onto the familiar worn vinyl of a Galley barstool Dean scrubs them roughly against his jeans. He's in dire need of a shower, grubby and rank after a long day of repairs on the engine of a lobster boat . He counts himself lucky that the only bar in Jackpine Harbor is quiet on Tuesdays.

From the other side of the bar, his friend Aaron catches his eye and waves to let him know he’ll be right over. When Dean waves back, Aaron’s nose crinkles. Dean doubts he can actually smell him at this distance, but it’s been like this with Aaron since they were teenagers. Theirs is a friendship based on snide remarks and casual insults, and though there was a brief and awkward bit of drunken fumbling between them a couple of years after high school, they’ve been pretty solid for close to a decade.

“Ugh, tell me you're not staying,” Aaron says, finally coming to lean behind the bar in front of him. Dean digs his phone out of his pocket, plonks it down on the bar top with his wallet, and winks.

“Hospitality like this, maybe I will.”

With a laugh, Aaron flips a dish towel over his shoulder and ducks down to take grab a bottle of El Sol. He thumbs the cap off and hands it over.

“You eating?” he asks, nodding toward the kitchen. “Chowder's good today.”

“I even _see_ a shellfish in the next week, I'm gonna hurl,” Dean tells him. “I ordered ribs.”

Aaron laughs again, moving to help a woman further along the bar and leaving Dean to his thoughts.

He turns his attention to the window. Outside, a fog has settled, rolling in over the water, and Dean sniffs, rubbing at his nose as he stares outside. He wonders if his dad is out there. If he's even in town.

It's been a nearly a month since he saw him, and while that's not uncommon, he usually has at least some idea about where he's disappeared to or when he's coming back. This time he's got no clue, and it feels different somehow. It makes him uneasy.

Dean isn't exactly close to his dad, but for the past seventeen years, since the day he doesn't think about unless his subconscious mind forces him to in a nightmare, John has been his only family. The thought of something having happened to him makes Dean's throat close up.

The two of them had stayed in Danville for a few months when he was twelve, living in a dilapidated motel on the edge of town, and as time wore on Dean grew more and more certain that the answer to the question his father refused to answer--when are we going home?--was _never_ .

Halfway through that summer, John had loaded the car in the middle of the night, and with barely any warning they'd moved again, this time to Corpus Christi, Texas. The name had seemed familiar to Dean, and it only took a few days for him to remember why. Something had happened to his mom here. She'd drowned here. She almost died here.

Dean asked his dad about it, expecting to be shot down again, and was unsurprised when he didn't answer. His dad had gone out that night, disappeared until late in the evening, and when he returned with bloody knuckles and a black eye. Dean curled up on his side in the lumpy motel bed and pretended to be asleep.

It was that week that Dean stopped asking about Sam and his mom . Soon enough, he stopped trying to talk to his dad at all.

They moved shortly after, then time and again, town to town, following the coast to the east and then onward to the north. Most places they only stayed for a few weeks. Though he never saw exactly what happened, Dean knew that his dad got into a lot of fights. Sometimes he wouldn't come back to the motel all night, and when he'd eventually return he almost always had some injury. A split lip or a swollen face or, on one occasion, a fractured wrist. He started trailing a haze of whisky soon enough. It made Dean feel sick, and he started to consider the fact that they wouldn't be staying long a good thing. If he wasn't in town long enough to make any friends, he wouldn't have to subject anyone else to his dad.

It wasn't until a week before Dean's fourteenth birthday, in January of 1993, that they moved to a small fishing town in Maine and into an actual house. In a brief moment of hopeful optimism, Dean thought that maybe this would bring about a change in his dad. But John's temper only grew worse with time, and with it his reliance on alcohol. As often as he could manage it Dean would avoid him and the house entirely. If he saw his dad, it was in passing. He fended for himself. It was better that way.

Despite being aware that his dad had a job in town, he was still sure he'd be uprooted and carted someplace new at a moments notice, and so , for the early years of his teens, Dean didn't make any friends. He isolated himself, avoided social contact as a form of self-preservation and stuck to the sidelines.

Luckily for him, the town of Jackpine Harbor presented a great many places for a lonely teenager to explore, and the stony beaches, caves, and forest that flank its sides were where Dean spent the majority of his time.

In the summer he'd make his way beyond the old docks to Cairn Beach, where pools of stone-warmed saltwater would form with the tide, and collect rocks and shells to pitch out into the ocean.

In the winter when it was cold and damp and dark, he'd venture into the caves at the edge of the beach, and his voice would echo from each side until he couldn't tell if it was really himself or someone calling back. Those were his favorite days--the ones when he could pretend there was someone there with him, calling him back to them. He'd shout and shout and shout and imagine that Sam was with him. That he was there, and that he was safe.

As time wore on, his memories of Sam and Mary slowly faded, but he never missed them any less. He couldn't do anything about it but resent his father and wait for the day when he'd be old enough to leave. Then, he swore he'd find them. Somehow.

But by the time he reached age eighteen, Dean had settled in to life in Jackpine Harbor. He'd graduated high school, had an apprenticeship lined up with a boat mechanic named Bobby, and was dating a girl named Lisa who worked at the single screen movie theater on main street. A month's worth of arguing with himself that he should cut his losses and leave his dad to rot on his own so he could track down his mom and his brother did nothing but make him realize how hopeless the thought of it was.

And by then he'd grown to love the town, despite the reason he’d ended up living in it. It was where his friends were. Where his girlfriend was. Where he’d learned who he was, and who he wanted to be.

It was home. As much as it could be, it was home.

So, despite years of planning to leave, he stayed in Jackpine Harbor, and though the relationship with Lisa fizzled and faded, he never regretted her influence in his decision to stay.

Now, he's a few months from thirty, works full time at the docks, and he hasn't seen his dad in weeks. God knows where he is. Dean just hopes he's sober.

He's pulled from his thoughts by the scrape of the stool beside him, and turns to see Benny pulling off his rain-spattered hat, dropping it onto the bar before he waves to Aaron to bring him a beer. Dean's known Benny since he moved to town a few years ago and started working out on one of the trawlers, owned by a cranky old fisherman named Rufus.

As one of three boat mechanics in the small fishing town, Dean's come to know most of the guys who work out on the water. Mostly, they're an antisocial bunch, preferring to keep to themselves when they aren't out on the waves pulling in lobster pots and trawling for salmon. Benny isn't exactly big on conversation, either, but he's always up for sharing a drink or two, and Dean doesn't mind the company while he waits for his order to be brought out from the kitchen.

For a long moment after Aaron brings him his beer, Benny appears thoughtful.

"There's this light," he says eventually, his southern drawl low as he glances over at Dean, "out on the water."

"Like, on a buoy or something?"

Scratching idly at his salt-and-pepper beard, Benny shakes his head.

"It's... I don't know, brother. Figured it was, at first, but it changed."

"Changed how?"

"Well," Benny says, thoughtful, "first I saw it was in June, and it was just a little speck out on the horizon, but now..."

Benny trails off and clears his throat, glancing sideways at Dean before he goes on.

"Now it's like a beam," he makes a whistling sound, dragging his index finger through the air from the bar top, "just shootin' straight up." He pauses, taking a gulp from his beer. "Or down."

"Right," Dean says, narrowing his eyes, and Benny frowns at him.

"I know what I saw," he insists.

"The bottom of a bottle?"

"Hilarious," Benny says. "I'm tellin' you, man. There's somethin' out there. It's scaring the fish away."

"And your first guess is aliens," Dean says flatly.

"I never said aliens," Benny says.

"You implied it."

"I didn't imply shit. I just gave you the facts," Benny says, "if that's where your mind went..."

He shrugs and takes another swig from his bottle, and Dean laughs, looking toward the door as it swings open to let in a gust of wind and an unfamiliar man.

In all the years he's lived here, Dean has seen his fair share of tourists, and this guy doesn't look like one of them. He's carrying a sack of what appears to be birdseed in the crook of his elbow, and he's disheveled in an irritating, male model kind of way. As he strides into the bar it's with an air of quiet confidence. Dean meets his eyes to smile in greeting and the guy's nostrils flare as if Dean's just told him to go fuck himself.

He turns on his heel and walks right back outside without even glancing at the menu. Frowning, Dean returns his focus to the drink in front of him and tries to remember what they'd been talking about. When he does, he bites back a smile and looks at Benny.

"Well maybe you should try and get a photo," he says seriously. "See if you can sell it to UFO Weekly."

"Blow it out your ass," Benny tells him with a laugh, and calls out to Aaron to order another beer.

By the time the bell by the takeout counter dings and Dean collects his food, he's completely forgotten about the angry stranger, and he sends a wave back to Benny and Aaron as he heads out into the fog.

  
  


* * *

Home is a green clapboard craftsman on Redstart Rise, the last street before Jackpine Harbor gives way to the forest. It's a short street to the north of the town proper, comprised of seven houses on the side closest to the water, and of them only four are occupied.

To Dean's left live the Baums, the Braedens, and an elderly woman named Gertrude Case, whose heavily jeweled fingers can be seen from the other end of the street if it’s sunny out. To his right, the nearest two houses are rented out to vacationers during the warmer months, and beyond them, at the very end, is a small, yellow house that's been for sale for as long as Dean can remember.

Tonight, as he pulls into his driveway, mouth watering at the smell of spicy barbecue that's wafting up from the passenger seat, there's a light in the yellow house's front window. The perpetually peeling FOR SALE sign is gone.

“Huh,” he says to himself, and squints through the front yards too see the shape of a few discarded moving boxes leaning against the garage, already a little damp from the misty rain and sticking out starkly against the faded paint that’s flaking off in strips onto the barren garden bed. It’s tempting to walk over now to welcome the new neighbors to town, but as soon as he considers it his stomach growls loudly, and he looks down at the plastic bag of takeout. Food first, then socializing.

Naturally, though, by the time he’s finished eating, he’s halfway through an episode of Iron Chef, and he can’t just stop watching. _Tomorrow_ , he decides, and settles in against the cushions with his hand splayed across his now full belly to watch the people on TV make icecream out of beef stock.

“What the fuck,” he mutters in combined disgust and morbid curiosity, and stares at the screen with his mouth half open.

It's a couple of hours later, as he's heading outside to put out the trash before bed, that he sees his new neighbor doing the same. Dean has his hand half raised in a wave before he recognizes him as the bizarrely angry man from the bar. The guy stiffens, his back ramrod straight, before turning sharply and briskly walking back inside without so much as a nod of greeting.

 _Maybe he's just shy_ , Dean thinks, and returns the lid of his trash can, dusting his hands off on his jeans. As he makes his way back to his front door, he hears the low hoot of an owl. It's sitting in the jackpine out the front of the yellow house. He can't help but feel like it's watching him.

  
  



	6. Seeing

It's only a couple of days before Dean sees the light for himself.

It's a few miles out, and it catches the corner of his eye as he drives along the shore before dawn on Thursday morning, heading down to the docks to meet with a guy who’s selling his old Meridian.

He thinks it's a sea plane, at first--the bright flash only appearing for a moment in the gap between pines.

Then, when the trees give way to rocks at the edge of Cairn Beach, affording him a clear view out over the water, he sees it clearly, shooting straight up out of the fog to the right of Steeple Island. Just like Benny said.

Without really thinking about it, he pulls over onto the narrow shoulder and gets out of the car, listening to the ticking engine and staring out into the dark split open by light. He wants to go to it, he realizes. Wants to climb aboard the nearest boat and aim for that light. He wants to sail right into it's center, to feel the crackling pulse of energy that's singing out like siren song. Singing to him.

It's just like in _The Ether Bright_ , he realizes, and his entire body prickles at the thought. That book, that dog-eared, thousand-times-read book that sits on his bedroom book shelf, talks about a light exactly like this. A light that calls.

He shakes off the feeling, but the urge to go to the light remains. He squeezes his hands into fists, breathing out slowly and trying to calm his suddenly racing heartbeat before he climbs back behind the wheel of his car, convinced that he’s losing his mind.

At the docks, it’s easy enough to put all thought of the light out of his mind as he inspects the old Seafarer yacht with a critical eye. She's an old thing, cornflower blue paint flaking from the sides where she floats at the water’s edge, but Dean can see potential beyond her worn exterior. He’s been wanting a little boat of his own for years, and this one--a ‘61 model that needs a little TLC to get her back into prime shape--is a steal for someone like him.

He’s got a decent amount of cash saved up, and if he can talk the guy down a few hundred bucks, he’ll have enough left over to start buying the parts he needs to get her from running to running smoothly.

“What d’ya say I throw in a service on your new boat, and you knock $300 off?” he offers, and after a pronounced _hmm_ , the guy sticks out his hand.

“You got yourself a deal,” he says.

Dean beams, and by the time he arrives at work, he’s the proud owner of a floating-but-not-entirely-functional Seafarer Meridian. The morning passes quickly as he replaces a couple of corroded exhaust risers in Rufus Turner’s old trawler and fixes the malfunctioning outboard motor on a tourist’s speedboat. When midday comes around he scrubs the grease from his hands as best he can and makes his way out into the cool air, heading up from the docks to Main Street for his lunch hour.

He’s halfway across the street, making a beeline for the deli where there’s a roast beef sandwich with his name on it, when someone shouts for him. With a start, he looks around to see his friend Charlie standing by the door to Pam's Coffee House. She’s the most colorful thing on the block, with her ginger hair and butter yellow sweatshirt like a beacon in front of the dark stone wall, and it takes a moment for Dean to realize that her sleeves are stained with what looks worryingly like blood.

He’s running toward her before it fully registers in his head.

“Don't freak,” she tells him as he gets closer, voice wavering. “It's not mine.”

Still, he takes hold of her arms, checking her over for injuries. The two of them got into a respectable amount of trouble during their teenage years, and he wouldn’t put it past her to have hurt herself trying to do something she’d seen in a video game. It wouldn’t be the first time--for either of them, if he’s being honest.

“What the hell happened?”

Charlie takes a shaky breath. Her eyes are watery and wide.

“I hit a dog,” she tells him, “out on Pine Bluff.”

“Is it--”

“She's gonna be fine,” she says, pulling her arms into the sweatshirt and then wriggling out of it, “I just left the vet now. She's got a broken tail and a few scratches, but otherwise she’s okay.”

“A broken tail? That can happen?”

“Apparently."

Charlie pitches the sweatshirt into a nearby trashcan and shudders. Leading her by the elbow, Dean pushes through the door to Pam's and toward an empty booth at the back.

“Are _you_ okay?” he asks.

“Just a little... y'know. Blergh,” she says with another full body shudder. “I thought I'd killed her. The _yelp_ , Dean.”

She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head as she sits down.

“God, it was horrible.”

“Do you know whose dog she is?” he asks.

“Never seen her before, and she didn't have a collar. Castiel's gonna hold on to her until she's better. I'm going to print out some fliers in case someone is looking for her.”

“Castiel?”

“Castiel Shurley. New vet,” she says. “He just moved here like a week ago. Really nice guy, actually.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mm,” she says, picking a packet of artificial sweetener from the bowl on the table and fiddling with it as she talks. “He's from Illinois. Seems a little awkward, but he's cute, too, if you're into the whole drop-dead-gorgeous kind of thing.”

Dean raises his eyebrow at that.

“Are you disappointed he's a he?” he jokes, and Charlie looks at him seriously.

"Dude is basically a model who saves fuzzy little animals. Of course I am,” she says, then grins. “Don’t tell Dorothy.”

“My lips are sealed,” Dean tells her with a smirk, and she laughs, slowly returning to her usual bubbly self now that the stress has started to wear off. As far as best friends go, he doesn't think he could have done much better than Charlie.

“I'm kinda surprised you haven't met him already, to be honest," she goes on. "He lives on your street.”

That's when it clicks, and Dean pulls a face.

"Yeah, drop-dead-gorgeous or not, I don't think we're gonna hit it off, Charlie."

"Why not?"

"If he's the guy I think he is, I've met him,” Dean says, then shakes his head. “Well, that's not entirely true. I've seen him. Twice. Both times he's looked at me like I'm the guy who canceled Firefly."

Charlie's face falls.

“You were supposed to be cheering me up after my trauma, not reminding me of another one.”

“Yeah, well you knew I was an asshole when you decided to be friends with me.”

“Terrible decision on my part,” she says, and flings the artificial sweetener at his head. “Now stop being a jerk and buy me coffee. You can keep me company until Dorothy gets here.”

“In that case, I’m gonna eat,” Dean says, pulling the menu out from underneath the salt and pepper shakers. “Been up since the ass crack of dawn, and I’m starving.”

“You start early this morning?”

"Nope. I went to get myself a birthday present," he says, and Charlie looks over her menu at him with a raised brow.

"Kind of premature, isn't it?"

Dean shrugs.

"Christmas present, then."

"It's _August second_ ," she tells him slowly.

"I've been a very good boy," he grins, and Charlie snorts at him.

"Doubtful."

"Keep being an ass and I won’t share it with you," Dean tells her, and that piques her interest. She perks up and leans eagerly forward across the table.

"What is it?"

Dean grins and takes out his phone, turning it around to show her the new screensaver.

“No,” she says, a smile spreading over her face as she looks back up. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” he says, and immediately Charlie starts plotting the exact route for the maiden voyage, Dean’s insistence that it’s going to be about a month until she’ll be seaworthy falling on deaf ears.

Dorothy arrives shortly after, motorcycle helmet tucked firmly under her arm and a worried frown crinkling her brow. She slides into the booth beside Charlie.

"Are you okay?" she asks, who smiles at her and nods.

"The pup is too," she says, "thank God."

"Good," Dorothy says, and leans over to plant a relieved kiss on her lips before looking across the table at Dean suspiciously. “Why do you look so chipper?”

“Boat!” Charlie exclaims before Dean can even open his mouth, and Dorothy arches her brow as her girlfriend launches into a description of the future sailing they’ll all be doing on Dean’s Meridian. By the time Dean has finished his lunch, he's had the next three summers planned out for him, and only gets Charlie to stop by mentioning the accident she’d had earlier in the day.

Her recounting of the whole event leads back to her singing praises about the towns new veterinarian, and when Dean insists that the guy is a surly asshole, Dorothy frowns over at him.

“He came in to the book-store a few days ago,” she says. “I thought he seemed really sweet.”

“See?” Charlie says.

"Maybe he was just in a bad mood from moving," Dean wonders aloud, and Charlie nods in agreement.

“Nothing pisses a person off like unpacking,” she point out. “I’ve still got boxes from when I moved in with Dorothy because I kept getting grouchy and gave up.”

“They’ll still be there in a decade,” Dorothy says, and Charlie grins at her, leaning in for a kiss.

“Get a room,” Dean tells them, and Charlie flips him off.

When Dean leaves Pam’s shortly before one, it’s with a plan to make another attempt at being neighborly, and a deadline for the boat to be seaworthy before the end of the month. If they don’t get to enjoy the relative warmth of summer out on his boat, Charlie promises her revenge will be creative and extreme.

  


* * *

A sharp wind picks up as he makes his way back down to the docks, and Dean zips up his leather jacket, half-jogging down the steps. He can see the Meridian bobbing on the waves, and it’s as he’s admiring the boat that his eyeline is drawn upward to the horizon. There, right where it had been this morning, the light still shines right up into the sky. He’d forgotten about it, but now that he sees it again, he’s not sure how.

Dean slows to a stop, frowning out over the water, and stares. His skin prickles.

“Earth to Winchester,” an impatient voice cuts through his thoughts. Dean’s head snaps around to find his boss, Bobby Singer, looking at him like he’s got a couple of screws loose. “You plannin’ on coming back to work sometime today?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Dean says, though his eyes slide traitorously back to the light. “I’m coming in now.”

“You feeling alright?”

“Hmm?” Dean glances back at him. “Yeah. I’m good. Just… you see that light out there?”

He points, and Bobby follows the line of his finger, scratching at his beard as he squints to see what he’s pointing at.

“Where?”

“Right there,” Dean says, jabbing the air, “on the horizon, by Steeple Island.”

Tilting his head forward, Bobby narrows his eyes even further.

"Maybe it's time for glasses," Dean tells him, and ducks when Bobby clips him in the ear before he turns to head back into the office of Singer Marine Works, muttering about smart-mouthed fools who should've been back from their breaks ten minutes ago.

Still, Dean lingers outside, his gaze drawn back to that light. It seems brighter than this morning. More defined. Like he might be able to touch it, were he close enough.

 _Maybe I should sail out there_ , he thinks, and at once feels both thrilled at the thought and disturbed by how strong the impulse is. In the end, it’s only Bobby barking at him to get back to work that pulls him out of his strange staring match with the light. He tries his best to keep his back to the water for the rest of the day, focusing as much as he can on the outboard motor he’s supposed to be repairing.

When he finally gets home that night, he's had to ignore the desire to turn around and head for the water more times than he wants to think of. He eyes the bookshelf in his bedroom and considers reading _The Ether Bright_ again, but in the end the thought makes him even more uneasy.

When he finally gives up and crawls into bed, his sleep is restless.

* * *

Every day for the next week, Dean stays back at the docks to work on the Meridian, and every night when he gets home, it’s just in time to see Castiel Shurley walking past his house with a bandaged Siberian Husky on a leash. Dean attempts to engage him in conversation on three separate occasions.

The first time goes about as well as the ignored wave.

The second, he actually responds to Dean's greeting with a curt, “Hello,” but he doesn't seem happy about it.

The third time, Castiel is forced to actually speak to him, because the dog slips free of her leash and Dean's the one to catch her.

“Thought vets were supposed to be good with animals,” Dean jokes, holding the excitable dog as still as he can while Castiel hurries across the yard toward him, and is treated to a scowl. So much for making a better impression. If looks could kill he's pretty sure Castiel's glare would have taken out the entire eastern seaboard.

“She's very young,” Castiel says, slowing to a stop in front of him, “and not adequately trained. And not actually my dog.”

"It's Castiel, right?" Dean asks needlessly, sticking out his free hand to shake, "I'm Dean."

"I know who you are."

It's with a pointed kind of avoidance that Castiel ignores the offered hand. Crouching down beside him, he fastens the leash to the dog's collar quickly. He's tense, and no less grouchy than every other time Dean's seen him, and as soon as it's attached, he's back on his feet.

“Let's go,” he says to the dog, and after making a brief attempt to lick Dean’s face she lets herself be led down the road.

“Nice to meet you,” Dean shouts, a little childishly, but if Castiel hears him, he doesn’t respond.

Heading back into his house, Dean wonders if maybe this is all an elaborate prank. The guy is good looking enough to be an actor, and as he sits down on his couch he thinks about the possibility that he's the subject of some stupid reality show. He can picture Charlie signing him up for something like that.

As absurd as the idea is, it makes more sense than the guy just deciding he hates Dean.

"New topic," Dean tells himself, and reaches out for the remote, switching on the TV to drown out the unwelcome thoughts about Castiel.

Despite all his best efforts, though, the guy keeps popping up whereever Dean goes, and as a result avoiding thoughts of him proves near impossible.

  
As if it weren’t irritating enough that he sees him each night, right when he’s ready to unwind, he's almost always at The Galley when Dean heads in to pick up dinner on nights he’s too tired to cook. He's in the hardware store the next town over, when Dean goes shopping for waterproof paint to coat the Meridian and make her his own.  
  
After the Husky's owner turns up and Castiel stops walking the dog, Dean thinks he's going to get at least some relief, but then the guy starts jogging. It doesn't even seem to matter if it's drizzling and cold; he's out there in the dim light in navy blue shorts and a t-shirt that clings to his chest with sweat and water.  
  
Dean looks out the window whenever he runs past and can't decide if he's more annoyed by his presence or the fact that he knows he appreciates the view.

 

He's like a bad smell that won't go away, even though Dean knows from the time he almost walked into him in the doorway at the post office, he smells good. Like some spicy cologne that Dean wishes he knew the name of.

Everywhere Dean goes, he’s there. And every time, he looks as Dean with the kind of tense distrust that would make sense if Dean were some gun-toting redneck in a Walmart aisle, not a guy in a Star Trek t-shirt, waiting in line to pay for a bag of apples at the Sunday morning market so he can make a pie later.

In the supermarket, Dean's trying to decide which kind of cereal he wants when a shopping cart stops noisily beside him and he glances up too see Castiel narrowing his eyes in irritation.

“You're blocking the aisle,” he says flatly, and Dean shuffles forward out of his way, “thank you.”

He's what Dean would call antisocial if he were feeling generous. But he's not, so he calls him an asshole. Mutters it, really.

Castiel wasn't supposed to hear, but Dean sees him tense out of the corner of his eye. A little embarrassed, Dean bites back the smirk that tries to force its way onto his face as he grabs a box of Cheerios and drops them into his own cart. He feels a kind of bad about it for a moment, but hell, he thinks, he’s been friendly. If this guy wants to be a prick for no good reason, then screw him.

He’s still thinking along those lines as he drives out of the parking lot, and narrowly avoids driving directly into the object of his thoughts. The brakes squeal as he slams his foot down, and Castiel doesn’t even flinch; just keeps walking slowly across the road in front of him until he finally stops on the other side, staring transfixed toward the water.

“Jackass,” Dean says, shifting back into gear, and though he knows he must hear him through the cracked window, Castiel doesn’t look up. The bag of groceries is pressed to his chest, and he’s still as stone, seemingly unaffected by the rain that’s started falling and the wind that seems to come from nowhere in sudden, violent gusts.

It’s when he stops at the crosswalk to let a few pedestrians run from the rainy waterfront to the shelter of the Main Street stores that he glances out to the horizon and suddenly feels an odd sense of understanding, because the light is there. Right in the place Castiel is staring.

Were he not driving, he’d have been looking toward it himself. As it is, now that he’s been reminded of it’s presence his eye is drawn back there every few seconds, and it’s taking more effort than he wants to think about to keep his gaze on the road ahead.

The worst thing, though, worse than every little moment of irritation and frustration, is that every other person in town seems to think that the sun shines out of the guys ass. Every second person he speaks to is basically in love with the guy, and Dean is fuming, because it's making him look like a jerk.

He's glad when he walks into The Galley to pick up his order of spaghetti the following week and sees Benny at the bar.

If there's anyone who won't try to sell him the isn’t-Castiel-wonderful line, it's going to be Benny.

Dean plonks down onto the bar stool beside him and gets a whiff of fish.

"Big catch today?” he asks, and Benny looks over at him, wiping beer foam from his beard.

“Better'n last week,” he says with an eye-crinkling smile, and pauses before he adds; “That light’s still out there, just by the by."

"C'mon, Benny," Dean groans. It's a marginally better topic than how incredibly fantastic Castiel Shurley is, but not by much. Dean would rather smash his head into the bar top than think about that damned light.

“So, how's the Meridian coming along?” Benny asks, and Dean takes a deep pull from his half-empty bottle, glad for the subject change.

“She floats,” he says with a grin. “Just have to attach the grill and hook up the lights inside, and I’ll be done. Taking her out on a test run on Saturday.”

“I’ll alert the coast guard.”

Aaron appears at the bar in front of them with Dean's takeout soon after, and Dean pushes to his feet, slipping his jacket back on. He claps Benny on the shoulder.

"Drive safe," Benny tells him.

"Yeah, I'll keep my eyes peeled for E.T.," he says, heading for the door, and laughs when Benny glares at him.

  


 


	7. Steeple Island

It’s not exactly warm on the day of the Meridian’s maiden voyage, but if they’re going to pretend that summer in Maine is anything like summer on the west coast, Dean’s going to do it right.

“Bring your bathing suits?” he asks when Charlie pulls her little yellow Gremlin into the dock parking lot, and she and Dorothy grin.

“Damn right we did,” Charlie says, rolling up her window.

While Dorothy makes a quick phone call to confirm her reservation--she’s heading out of town for a booksellers conference tomorrow--Charlie grabs the bag of snacks from the back of the car.

Stooping to pick up his cooler from where he’s been sitting on it behind the Impala, Dean carries it down toward the boat with the two girls following close behind. He glances back to see Dorothy repeating details to some Ohio hotel receptionist, and Charlie noisily chewing on the kind of grape-scented bubble gum most people grow out of when they hit puberty. Dean pulls a face at the smell.

“You’re not bringing that crap onto my boat,” he says, heaving the cooler a little higher to adjust his grip.

“You sound like our old geometry teacher,” she tells him, and dutifully dumps the gum into a nearby trash can, “maybe you’re just getting old.”

“You’re the same age,” Dorothy reminds her, pocketing her phone, and Dean points at her, wobbling a little as he steps from the dock onto the boat.

“Exactly,” he says.

“Ugh, don’t remind me. I can almost smell middle age from here,” Charlie groans, and he holds out a hand to help them both step over the gap.

There’s the clattering of feet on the dock behind them, and they all look up to see Aaron hurrying down toward them with a beach towel draped over his shoulder. He clambers gracelessly onboard, almost tripping right back over the other side, and his shriek of horror as he grips the edge of the boat is hilarious enough that any thought of their impending thirties is swiftly pushed from their minds.

“You’re all dicks,” he announces, face flushed red, and it only makes them laugh harder. Despite Aaron’s near death experience, it’s only a matter of minutes before they’re cruising out of the harbor, heading toward Steeple Island.

He hasn’t been out here in a while, but when he was still in his teens, he'd befriended any fishermen who'd give him the time of day, and talked his way into borrowing whichever little boat he could in order to extend his exploration out to the small island. Steeple Island quickly became a favorite due to the two massive rocks that stood on the north side. In the old coastline paintings that line the walls of The Galley, they seem to hold up the ever-present clouds out over the ocean, but at some point in recent years they’d fallen. Now, they lean together like hands caught in prayer.

The majority of the island's forest is long since dead, made up mainly of sycamore trees, and their many white limbs seem warped and curled, twisted in their last-ditch effort for life. Some look as though they have been carved from bone. Back then, some kids' parents liked to say this was not a coincidence, trying to dissuade their kids from wanting to go out there and climb on the slippery rocks. As Dean had already learned, though, parents sometimes lied.

The water today is calmer than it has been all week, and as they sail Dean tries not to look at the light on the horizon, just to the right of the island’s shore.

“What’s that?” Charlie asks, pointing out toward it. Dean’s skin prickles again, and it's an unpleasant feeling that spreads from the base of his throat, all the way out to his fingers.

“What’s what?” Aaron asks, and he and Dorothy come to stand beside her, all three of them gazing out at the light that has Dean feeling like he might be sick if he doesn’t head toward it.

“No idea,” Dean says, and focuses his eyes away from the light.

It doesn't take too long to get out to Steeple Island. As soon as they've dropped anchor a little ways from the shore, Dean strips down to his shorts, tucking his pendant into a shoe for safe keeping, and dives into the sea. It’s ice cold, and the shock of it does exactly what he’d hoped it would--all the unease he’d felt at not going toward the strange light is gone.

Bobbing in the chill water, he wipes at his eyes and squints up at the silhouettes of his friends.

"You guys coming?"

"Depends," Aaron calls back, peering down at him skeptically. "How far into your body have your balls retreated?"

"It's not _that_ cold," Dean lies through chattering teeth, and Aaron frowns at him for a long moment before sinking down to sit with his feet dangling over the edge of the deck.

"I'm good up here," he says, pulling open a bag of pretzels.

"Wimp," Charlie tells him, stretching her arms up in preparation for diving as Dorothy smirks beside her, making sly eye contact with Dean as her hands slowly raise. "When we find the buried treasure you're on your ow--argh!"

Charlie hits the water with a splash, and as soon as she resurfaces, she lets out a shrill shriek.

“Oh my god,” she says, staring at Dean and shivering, “you’re a liar. And _you--_ ” she points up at Dorothy, who is sitting casually beside Aaron and snacking on pretzels, “you’re in so much trouble I haven’t even decided how much trouble it is yet.”

“Oh no,” Dorothy says, and noisily crunches into another pretzel.

When the cold starts to numb his fingers, Dean climbs up the ladder and back onboard to sit beside them, wrapping a towel around his shoulders and roughly drying his hair. Aaron fishes around in the cooler for a beer, holding it out for him once he emerges from behind his towel. It fizzes when he pops the cap.

Dean accepts it with a grin.

"You do realize it's your day off, right?"

"Bite me, Winchester."

Dean just winks.

"Knew you'd come around," he says.

Aaron stares him down, not breaking eye contact as he calls out to Charlie.

"Char!" he shouts, "Dean's hitting on me again. Get your ass up here and save me."

"Dean hits on everyone," Charlie shouts back, then after a pause, "are we eating soon?"

  


* * *

Standing with his back to the shore as he waits for the right moment to flip the burgers cooking on the grill, Dean stares out over the water. Vacationing city kids on jet skis zig-zag across the choppy surface, and the mosquito whine of their engines cuts through the quiet most people come here for. The light is there, spearing through the cloud. He doesn’t feel a thing. When one of the jet skiers whoops loudly, setting off a series of cheers that echo out over the water, he pulls a face.

“Shouldn’t they be back in school by now?” he wonders aloud, and Charlie snorts from the dock beside him.

“I don't know, grandpa, shouldn’t you be picking up your social security check?”

“Again,” he says, pointing between them as he speaks slowly, “ we’re the same age.”

“Yeah, but you _look_ so much older,” she says, and laughs as he swats at her arm.

The afternoon passes swiftly, and through it all Dean barely notices the light. When he does, his eyes just pass it right by. He feels no compulsion to sail toward it. No trembling hands, no rolling stomach. For a long moment before they haul anchor to head home, he stares directly at it and feels nothing, and smiles. _It was all in my head,_ he thinks. Of course it was.

 

Naturally, the afternoon with no desire to cross the water and feel the light means that later, when he’s dried and dressed and driving back up the shoreline toward Redstart Rise and sees it shooting up like a glowing pillar, the urge hits him like a freight train. It’s brighter, now. He’s sure of it. Brighter than last night, by far.

He doesn’t know what’s different, but he needs to go out there again. Needs to sail right past Steeple Island and into the warmth of that light, into the center of it where it burns the brightest.

His fingers itch on the steering wheel. He grips it, hard, and forces himself to keep his eyes on the road, to keep moving forward. Go home, he tells himself. Just go home.

When he gets inside, his entire body is in protest, and he feels as though he’s going to crawl out of his skin if he doesn’t go down to the water. With shaky hands he undresses and stumbles into the bathroom. The steam of the shower clears his head a little, and when he gets out and swipes his hand across the mirror to look at his reflection in the wet glass, he finds his eyes haunted, wide and lost. His skin is itching all over, hot and prickly and uncomfortable, like the tingling at the back of the neck when you’re being watched.

The last time he felt like this was years ago, in the midst of a post-nightmare panic attack, his mind swirling with memories of that day in his youth. Images of an empty basement, a swell of cloud, scratched out symbols and a space where his brother should be. The nightmares had stopped eventually, when he was around seventeen, but he remembers them now, clear and visceral. He wants it to stop.

If he goes into the backyard, he’ll be able to see the light.

 _Maybe I should just go look at it_ _to see if that makes me feel better_ , he thinks, but it doesn’t feel like his own thought. It’s like someone else whispering into his head, twisting his insides until he’s forced to comply. Dean’s heart pounds. He swallows convulsively and watches his own face in the mirror as it visibly pales.

Shakily, he pulls the mirror forward and finds sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet it hides. They've probably expired. He doesn't bother to check.

* * *

Clawing his way back to wakefulness, Dean groans.

His eyes are dry, his mouth parched, and he wonders why he ever thought it was a good idea to let his sleep be a medicated one. It's never restful. He always wakes more tired than he was to begin with, even when he's been out for nine hours.

It's a Sunday, so the boat shop is closed, and though he'd been planning to go tinker with the Meridian some more, to fix the couple of little problems he’d noticed on the day trip yesterday, the thought of being near the water has him nervously tapping his foot against the kitchen tile.

Staring at the coffee machine as it grinds and whirs noisily on the countertop, he decides he should read the book again. Just to prove, he thinks, that it's not actually all that similar. To prove to himself that he's being ridiculous. But he picks it up and the words are there, talking about the light. He saw that light. Felt it. Heard it.

He's read the book a thousand times, over and over, and he knows what it says about the light. What it means is coming. A beast indescribable. A beast called _nightmare_ , a beast called _myth._ A beast that comes creeping, slithering from the space in between, from the gap between worlds and devours everything in sight.

Sometimes it has scales, or hooves, or tentacles. Great slick limbs that reach out and squeeze, crush, obliterate.

Sometimes it has fangs for tearing, gnawing, gnashing.

Sometimes, it doesn't need them.

Which means, Dean tells himself, that its all made up. Obviously it’s all made up. It’s a story. Just a story.

Despite his desire not to, he flips to the first chapter and reads.

_**Chapter One : The Ether Bright** _

_All ye who sail on the swell o' the wave_  
sing, sing through the night  
for no voiceless sailor is ever so brave  
lest he’s caught by the ether bright  
\- The Ballad of Elias Maclay

_In the deep, deep, down, where no sunlight reaches, out by the island where twin pillars lean, there's a rift in the world that is pressed tight together to stop life leaking out and the beast creeping in._

_Elias Maclay, as a praenuntia, could sense this rift like a shark senses blood, but knew not what it was._

_He stood at the water’s edge, gazing toward the source of his discomfort, and as he stood the wind picked up without his influence, whipping sand against his calves until they stung and burned. When the storm grew, ignoring his command to quiet, he moved hurriedly from the beach, up the rotten ladder and onto the pier. When it stopped, abruptly, a murmur seemed to roll over the town, as though every soul had drifted to the edges of their dreams and spoken in their sleep. From his place on the pier, Elias could hear them all speaking as one, and his skin prickled._

_It's coming, they said. It's coming, and there is no escape._

_The light, he knew, had not always been there. For many years he had sailed around the islands off the coast of Acadia, and he’d seen no trace of anything like it. Then, quite suddenly, it was there. A speck, at first, barely visible on the horizon, soon grew bright and tall. Now, it reached upward into the fog to pierce the sky like a sword._

_To Elias, it was like siren song._

_It called to him, beckoned him like a lover_ _and made him feel almost certain that were he to sail out and touch it he’d know joy unlike any other. Being the type of man he was he did not trust this feeling, and so it was with an arsenal of protective spells and warding that he aimed his small boat off the coast in the winter of 1795, and sought out the source of the light that shone up from the depths._

Each word Dean reads makes his chest feel tight, and he skips the rest of the chapter, unwilling to see the words on the page that feel all too familiar now. Instead, he flips through, catching fragments of the story as he goes.

_...his anger manifested in a storm that roared and rumbled, winds thrashing the trees bare branches and sending clattering hail against the rooftops of the town…_

_...the light opened up onto a place where nothing moves, where dark things, forgotten things waited in silence for their moment to come..._

_...pushing through the soil, leaves sprung forth and grew, spreading outward and covering…_

_...the earth, though, grew restless. Hungry..._

_...hooves digging into the half-melted snow at the water’s edge, was a beast. It's eyes were black, shining things, glossy as beetles, and they watched him as if calculating. He felt pulled apart under its gaze..._

_...he wondered if it might take him. If it might raise up on those back-bending hind legs and bring down it's fore-hooves against his skull to crush him, to shatter his bones, his face beyond recognition. It didn't, of course. Like most beasts from the ether he'd encountered, it seemed only to want to toy with him…_

_...with only a thought, Elias called the air of above, and sent it curling down through the water to press into the lungs of the drowning child…_

_...he could hear the sound of women crying; of a whimpering boy somewhere beneath the rubble; of a man in pain, breathing haggard as he wept. But there was no dry wood to burn; no gas lanterns survived the storm. Summoning fire to his hands was simple..._

… _there was fury, and a capacity for destruction that he had not yet known. The beast was with him, now, truly, and it wrought it's destruction on the town as Elias watched on in horror..._

_...when at last he found his center, Elias, broken and ashamed for all he had done, crumbled to his knees and called down the rain…_

Instead of assuring him that the similarities are few and coincidental, the book sends him into a barely restrained panic, and Dean slams it closed, shoving it toward the opposite side of the couch. He hunts high and low for his cell—finally finds it twenty minutes later in his goddamned pocket—and taps out a quick, deceptively casual message to Charlie.

**Hey Char, you free today? Janeway? Pizza?**

She replies almost instantly, telling him that so long as he's the one supplying the pizza and she doesn't have to put real clothes on, she's in. An hour later he's at her door, balancing a pizza box on one hand. She greets him in a truly impressive Princess Leia onesie, complete with buns on the hood.

“Jesus,” he says, pushing the door closed with his foot, “Dorothy's been gone like three hours and you've already reverted to infancy.”

“You're just jealous it didn't come in your size,” she tells him haughtily, and takes the pizza.

It's easy to put the light out of his mind while he's with her, and they've been lounging on the couch for the better part of an hour when Dean thinks he should mention it. He finally works up to bringing it up during the opening credits of the next episode.

“So you remember that light we saw yesterday?” he says, glancing over at her nervously. “Out past Steeple Island?"

“Yeah?”

Clearing his throat, Dean looks down at his hands and attempts to explain everything he’s been thinking. Every bizarre impulse and the way the book talks about the same thing. Charlie listens in silence with her chin resting on her hand, and when he finally finishes recounting the unsettling desire to seek it out, she blinks at him slowly and says, “Dude, you've read that stupid book too many times. It was probably just a boat with a spotlight.”

Dean frowns.

"Benny said it's been there since June," he says, and knows the argument sounds weak even before it forms.

"Benny also claims to have seen Bigfoot," Charlie points out, leaning back against the armrest and pointing a half-eaten slice of pizza at him for emphasis before she bites into it, speaking through the crust, "in _Louisiana_. He's not exactly a reliable witness."

“You're right,” he says, and wills himself to believe it, “you're probably right.”

“I'm definitely right.”

“Yeah,” he nods.

But that night when he can't sleep, he finds himself wandering down to the edge of his backyard in his pajamas, staring down through the gaps in the trees.

The light is brighter than ever. He hears it. Feels it. He wonders how long it would take to swim to it if he clambered down the rocky slope and dove into the water, and feels something twisting uneasily in his stomach at the realization that he wants to.

When a sudden wind comes on, icy and strong, and the light is lost for an instant in the flash of lightning that cracks the sky, he crosses his arms tightly over his chest and tells himself to go back to bed. It’s a few minutes before his legs comply. As he’s turning back to the house, he sees Castiel Shurley in his own yard, barefoot on the damp grass, staring out.

  



	8. Familiar Faces

Time wears on, and the light remains.

It’s definitely getting brighter. What had started as a dim line in the sky has slowly become more like a beacon, but nobody else seems bothered by it. Bobby, at least, has mentioned the fact that he can see it, and that, Dean thinks, is just further proof that it’s brighter--even if the gruff boat mechanic denies feeling any desire to sail toward it.

All the while, storms keep coming, rolling thunderheads casting an eerie yellow light over everything. Dean spends the entirety of October in a state of growing disquiet, and tries not to ignore the irrational compulsion to brave the increasingly violent water and seek out the light.

The holiday season is busy, and he manages to use the rush of social activity to keep himself occupied and focused away from the water, for the most part. It means the months disappear in a haze of drinking and socializing, and then suddenly it's January.

Dean's thirtieth birthday comes and goes without incident.

It's at the beginning of his lunch break a couple of days later that he sees his dad's truck parked at the docks for the first time since the previous year. The old Dodge is in utter disrepair; the windshield is filthy, the doors rusted, and the sight of it makes him feel like turning and running the other way.

He doesn't.

"Dad!" Dean calls out, heading down the dock to where John is locking the door to his old boathouse.

If the truck looks bad, John looks like hell. His knuckles are bloody, his eyes haunted, face gaunt. He looks as though he hasn't slept in days, and considering his track record and the stench of liquor that hangs in the air around him like a five-foot aura, Dean wouldn't be surprised if that were the case.

"Dad?” he says again, quieter as he comes to a stop beside him, “where the hell have you been?"

"Around," John tells him, barely sparing him a glance as he stands to dig his car keys out of his pocket, "How's business?"

John's attention is set firmly on the keys he's trying to dislodge. If he realizes the person talking to him is the only family he has left in the world, he's not showing it. Dean feels his jaw twitch.

"Business is fine. So am I, if you're wondering."

"Good," John says, wiping his hands on his dirty jeans, and starting up toward the parking lot. "Listen, I'm heading out of town. Might be a while.”

"You just got back," Dean says, following close behind. John doesn't respond. Dean hurries to keep up.

“Where are you going?”

"If you need to know, you'll know.”

"Well how long are you leaving for?"

"Don't know."

"Damn it, Dad, will you just stop for five minutes? Come to The Galley, we can grab a burger--"

"No," John says flatly, yanking open the door to his truck and climbing inside. There's a brief moment when he moves to shut the door when he seems to stop, to think of something, and he looks over at Dean with the closest thing to a smile that his haggard face can seem to manage. It might be intended as friendly. The unfamiliarity of the expression makes Dean's stomach lurch. “I'll see you when all this is taken care of.”

“When all what is taken care of?”

The door closes with a heavy thud. Unsurprising, really. Dean watches the car as it winds out of the parking lot and out of view, and he can't tell if he's more relieved or miserable to see the tail lights fading.

He's about to head for the deli when he notices a card on the ground where his dad's truck had been parked, and when he picks it up it's a driver's license. Lilith Ambrose of Corpus Christi, Texas stares up at him with cold blue eyes and a smirk that looks entirely predatory.

He goes to the post office and mails it to the address printed on the front, and heads back down to the docks to finish up his shift.

* * *

 

On his way home that night, Dean sees the light again and finds himself taking a sudden turn onto the lower coastal road, driving to the shore.

It's dusk when he pulls over by the end of a hiking trail, still closed for the winter, and leaves the engine running when he gets out so he won't go too far. It's only a moment before he forgets this line of reasoning completely and scrambles down the rocky wall to the waters edge, to feel the cold sting of the ocean spray on his nose as though through a layer of memory, to stare out at that ever-present light. It's even brighter than he thought.

He's sure it's been getting more and more noticeable with every passing day, brighter and brighter as time drags on. He feels the pull more than ever, something magnetic and unfathomably strong.

Night falls while he stands on the stones, the water rolling in, lapping the shore.

His breath hangs in the air before him, and the light throbs, pulses. He thinks of Elias Maclay. As the light brightens, a hush seems to fall over everything, as though the water itself has paused to listen to the light, and Dean feels as though he's going to be sick. There's something out there. Something monstorous and huge, like the book described. It's happening, he thinks. It's going to happen.

Either that, or he's going crazy.

Terrified, he turns to run back to his car only to see Castiel Shurley in the beam of his headlights, looking down at him like he's trying to decide whether he wants to speak or not.

“What are you doing?” Dean calls, and his voice seems to shatter the quiet, the sound of the ocean suddenly loud in his ears, waves rolling against the stone, crackling when it comes into contact with the thick packed snow. Dean is freezing cold. His fingers are numb. He can't feel his nose. He hadn't realized.

Dean rubs his hands hard together for warmth while he makes his way back up to Castiel's level.

“My car broke down,” he says at last, and Dean blinks against the wind while Castiel pauses. “Charlie mentioned that you were a mechanic?”

“I'm a boat mechanic,” Dean clarifies.

“An engine is an engine, though.”

“Sure,” Dean says, “like a lung is a lung, and you’d be able to diagnose a human with bronchitis.”

Castiel squints at him, hands visibly flexing in his pockets, and shuffles back a step as Dean comes to a stop in front of him.

“Can you help me or not?” he asks, and looks so damn miserable about asking that Dean knows he has to. _Fuck_ , he thinks, and sighs.

“Sure,” Dean says with false cheer, “lead the way.”

Castiel's car is only a few minutes back down the hill, and when they reach it a thin layer of snow has settled on the hood. It's a small, horribly plastic 90's hatchback, bright blue and hideous. When Dean pops the hood he thinks he might actually have been able to push the thing all the way back to Castiel's driveway if conditions were a little better.

Engines are not engines, in the end; at least not in the near pitch dark when the light snow is slowly shifting back to rain, and he has no idea what the problem is. He stares down into it while Castiel holds his cell phone flashlight over his shoulder, and eventually gives up.

“You're gonna be waiting a while if you want a tow out of here,” he says, wiping grease off on his jeans. “You'd be better off getting your mechanic to come out tomorrow. I can give you a ride home.”

For a brief moment, Castiel looks like he’s going to argue.

“If you think I'm gonna let you walk in this weather, you’re crazy,” Dean says, closing the hood with a tinny click before making his way toward his own car. “C'mon.”

The roads are slippery with half melted-snow, and Dean drives slowly with Castiel a frowning presence in the passenger seat. He sits stiffly, uncomfortably, and as the rain gets heavier Dean watches him from the corner of his eye. He's got a good profile, Dean notices. He hates that he notices. It was the first thing he noticed, too, come to think of it, all those months ago when Castiel first walked into The Galley with a bag of birdseed and an attitude problem.

Suddenly, the pointless loathing is too irritating to ignore. The steady squeak of the wipers on the windshield is like a ticking clock, counting down to the moment he's going to snap. Drawing the car to a stop at an intersection, Dean glances over at him.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

Castiel's eyebrows raise before he nods curtly. Dean turns the corner and clears his throat.

“What's your problem?”

“What's _my_ problem?” Castiel repeats, incredulous, “you're joking, right?”

“You've had a stick up your ass since you moved here,” Dean says, flipping the wipers on to the fastest setting as the rain pounds down, “but all I hear from everyone else in town is how nice a guy you are. So obviously you've got a problem with me. I just want to know what the fuck I did to piss you off.”

“I think we both know,” Castiel says coldly, and as Dean slows to turn onto Redstart Rise, Castiel unbuckles his seatbelt and climbs out of the car into the downpour, slamming the door behind him.

“Wow,” Dean says, watching Castiel stomp through slushy mud toward his house, “psycho.”

By the time Dean pulls into his own driveway, his wipers are barely doing anything to clear the windshield.

The twelve feet between his car and the front door are enough to have him soaked through to the bone. When he trails mud through the entryway he hears the echo of his mother scolding him at age ten for forgetting to take off his shoes after spending a summer afternoon catching tadpoles in a slimy pond in the park behind a neighbor's house with Sam. The wave of sadness is not unexpected, but it still hits him hard, and he leans against the wall, wiping water from his face and flicking it to the floorboards before he peels off his soaked jacket.

Outside, the downpour shifts into something stronger still, and after he's showered and warm in dry clothes, Dean looks out the back bay window to see the trees whipping wildly in the wind. Through the side of the window, he can make out a figure struggling through a backyard a couple of houses down, trying to drag something from the very back of the yard up toward the garage, where bright yellow light is spilling from an open door.

He knows it's Castiel, and despite himself he knows he's going to go help him. As much as he'd like to be petty and stubborn, he just can't do it. With an annoyed huff, he grabs a thick coat and boots, and yanks open the back door.

The two yards between them are mostly clear, and he crosses them as quickly as he can.

Closer, he recognizes the dark shape Castiel is attempting to move as a bird cage, and he hurries to the other side of it. Castiel looks at him in confusion through the rain.

“Where to?” Dean asks him, shouting over the sound of the wind, and Castiel blinks a couple of times before he answers.

“The garage,” he shouts back.

Hefting the cage up, the two of them make their way to the garage door as the wind gets stronger, buffeting them from side to side as they cross the slippery snow that covers Castiel's backyard. His garage is overcrowded with junk, the gap in the middle just barely big enough to fit the blue car that's currently sitting on the side of the road halfway back to Jackpine Harbor.

Once they've put the cage down in the middle of the gap, Dean shuts the door against the rain—now almost sideways with the force of the wind—and Castiel wastes no time in pulling up the cover to check on the bird inside, making quiet hushing sounds to calm it's panicked flapping.

“Is it alright?” Dean asks, leaning in to get a look, and Castiel yanks the cover back down.

“He is, yes,” he says, and there's a rumble of thunder in the air. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Looking back toward the garage door, Dean runs a hand through his soaked hair. Pushes out a breath. He's about to leave, bracing himself for the brutal chill of the rain against his face, when Castiel's hand settles on his shoulder briefly before he pulls it away as if it burned.

“You should wait until it's over,” Castiel says, though he barely sounds as though he means it.

Despite wanting to leave more than he's ever wanted anything in his life, Dean agrees. He hasn't seen a storm like this in years, and the idea of heading back out there makes him more than a little nervous. The door from the garage into the house is blocked by piles of junk.

Castiel looks at it with a miserable sigh before he tries to wipe his hands dry on his damp shirt. He glances over at Dean.

“Could you help me move this?” he says.

Reluctantly, Dean nods, and pulls off his coat.

“Just... try not to look at anything.”

“Right,” Dean snorts, “I'll try.”

Dean doesn't try. If anything, he looks at everything he moves with more critical an eye than he would have otherwise. It's slow moving, and while they work he finds himself wondering more and more who exactly this guy is, and what on earth all this stuff is for. One half-open box is full of jars of strange seeds, floating in pale green liquid; another contains something he'd most easily describe as a robe. That's the most confusing one of all; Castiel might be a little unusual, a little aloof, but nothing about him says cult to Dean. _Maybe_ , he thinks, _he's into community theater or something_.

His house, in comparison—when they finally manage to get inside—looks completely normal. Unwashed dishes in the kitchen sink. Letters on the counter. Bookmarked copy of something mildly pretentious on the coffee table.

“Why'd you have your bird out there, anyway?” Dean asks him, draping his coat over the back of a kitchen chair. “I mean, the storms haven’t been this bad since last year, but it's been snowing pretty much every day for the past three weeks.”

“He doesn't stay in the cage,” Castiel says, “he's been... he's been flying. Hunting. Usually he returns to his roost on the back porch and I let him inside, but I expect the sudden storm made it difficult for him to fly as far as the house.” “Smart bird,” Dean says. “He is.”

“What kind is he?”

For a split second, Castiel hesitates, falters, and when he says “he's a parrot,” Dean finds he really doesn't believe him.

"I didn't know parrots were birds of prey," he says, and Castiel clears his throat, moving toward his fridge. He pulls out a pizza box and slides it onto the table, taking a slice and sticking it into the microwave.

"Help yourself if you're hungry," he says over his shoulder. It's a blatant deflection.

Dean eyes him suspiciously, and figures that whatever kind of bird he's keeping, it must be illegal to have as a pet. He bites down on the inside of the cheek to stop himself from asking if it's really an eagle or something.

Out of some kind of petty spite that doesn't make a whole lot of sense if he thinks about it too hard, he tells Castiel he's not hungry, walking back from the kitchen counter to the couch and sitting down. While the microwave hums, Dean lets his eyes wander around the room. He's irritated by how much he likes the pictures on the wall and the Vonnegut novels on the shelf and the stack of vinyl leaning against the side of a well-kept vintage turntable.

The microwave beeps, shrill and jarring, and a moment later Dean looks up to see Castiel carrying a slice of pizza with a paper napkin.

"I usually watch Iron Chef," Castiel says, glancing over at his TV, "if you don't mind."

"Your TV," Dean says, as if he didn’t have plans to watch it himself tonight. When Castiel sits down on the other side of the couch, Dean shuffles a little closer to the armrest to put as much room between them as possible. The storm outside goes on and on, and from the corner of his eye, Dean watches Castiel sitting there tense and agitated. It's possibly the most painfully uncomfortable situation Dean has ever found himself in , and after a few minutes of tense silence he pushes a noisy breath out between his teeth.

"I think I'll grab some of that pizza after all," he says, standing, and Castiel nods stiffly.

The really frustrating thing, Dean realizes after he returns to the couch to watch the Iron Chef challenger make something truly bizarre with ketchup and liquid nitrogen, is that Castiel is gorgeous. And he has good taste in books. And music. And TV shows, apparently. He looks after animals and has the kind of shaggy, unkempt hair that Dean just wants to run his fingers through.

Looking over at him, Dean frowns. _Why do you have to be such an asshole?_ he wonders, and comforts himself by deciding, based on absolutely no evidence at all, that he's probably not even into dudes in the first place.

It takes the entire night for the storm to pass, and around four in the morning Dean wakes up on a couch he didn’t mean to sleep on with a crick in his neck and a scratchy blanket draped over his knees that definitely wasn’t there before. For a moment, he smirks to himself at the mental image of Castiel agonizing over covering him with it or maintaining his attitude of disdain.

The wind is still roaring outside, catching under the eaves and slamming rain sideways against the windows. When Dean pushes to his feet, heading for the bathroom, he hears the low murmur of Castiel's voice coming from the garage. Through the door, he sees him talking quietly to the bird in the cage. His tone is gentle, and soothing, and Dean thinks this must be the guy that everyone else has met.

For some unfathomable reason, though, he seems determined to keep hating Dean. It just doesn't make sense. Dean mentions it to Benny at The Galley the next night, and is rewarded with a raised eyebrow.

“Why do you care?” he asks, and Dean shrugs, taking another swig from his bottle.

“Don't really. It's just annoying, is all.”

“Mm,” Benny agrees, scratching at his beard in a way that Dean thinks is supposed to cover his smile, “whatever you say, brother.”

* * *

 

The day is warm--at least, compared to the few preceding it--and Dean takes the chance to sit out in the weak sunlight at lunch, picking at the plastic container of microwaved pasta that he doesn’t much feel like eating. He’s got his back to the water, sitting at a picnic table in the park by the docks and ignoring the incessant desire to turn and look toward that light, when he overhears the sound of a heated argument.

Over by the top of the stairs that lead down toward Turner’s Boat Rental office, Castiel Shurley is red-faced and visibly frustrated, speaking in low, harsh tones to a man Dean has never seen before. He’s tall and well dressed; a city businessman, if Dean had to guess.

Though a wind is starting to crop up, blowing away the warmth, his slicked back hair doesn’t move an inch. When Castiel stops talking, the man reaches out and pats his arm,  saying something that appears apologetic before turning and heading down to the rental office.

“Bart, just listen to me--” Castiel shouts after him, and the man looks back up at him from the bottom of the stairs.

“I have to know,” he calls back, spreading his hands wide as he shakes his head. "I have to.”

With that, Bart turns and briskly walks into Rufus’ shop.

From where Dean is sitting, absently swirling his fork around in his pasta, he can make out the expression on Castiel’s face and it’s no longer frustration. It’s despair. And something like fear. When he eventually walks away, back toward the veterinary clinic on main street, he looks like he’s one bad moment away from crying. Frowning, Dean shrugs it off and returns to his lunch, and only looks up again when he hears the sound of Rufus’s door closing. Rufus walks Bart up the narrow jetty, and by the time Dean heads back down toward the shop at the end of his lunch break, the stranger is pulling out of the small harbor on a rented fishing boat.

The next day he hears from Bobby that a man Rufus lent a boat to had gone missing with the boat.

"GPS trail just went--" Bobby makes a poofing motion with his hands, "and nobody's seen hide nor hair of him since."

"You think the engine gave out?" Dean asks, and Bobby clucks his tongue.

"Doubt it. Rufus had that boat checked out not two weeks ago, remember? And it's been good weather this past few days, so I doubt he wrecked it. No, more likely he's knocked out the GPS and stolen the damn thing. He'll turn up sooner or later."

"Yeah," Dean agrees, but when he looks out to the water to see that ever-present light, he can't help but think of Elias Maclay, and the stories no one believed.  

* * *

 

It’s only a couple of days later that Dean’s waiting for Aaron to finish his shift at the Galley so he can give him a ride home, when he notices a woman sitting at the bar a few seats away. Without anything else to occupy himself, Dean looks over at her and thinks about striking up a conversation.

She's pretty, with long, auburn hair swept back from her face, and she’s twisting the stem of her empty wine glass between her fingers, glancing now and then toward Dean, and then toward the door. Dean hasn't seen her before. He wonders if she’s new to town, or just visiting, but before he’s thought of something to say to her the door swings open and they both glance toward it.

Naturally, it’s Castiel who walks in, shrugging out of his ill-fitting overcoat and smiling at the woman in greeting.

She stands, smiling back, and Dean kind of wants to warn her to find someone else to go on a date with. Anyone but this douchebag. But she says something quietly to Castiel, who looks across at Dean with a frown before putting his wide palm gently against the woman's shoulder and shaking his head. Whatever Castiel's problem is, apparently he's starting to spread it around.

Dean narrows his eyes and drinks the rest of his beer as they walk over to the furthest booth. He doesn't mean to eavesdrop, but it's quiet at The Galley, and even though they're speaking quietly, every now and then their voices carry to where Dean sits on the corner stool, half-watching music videos play on the overhead TV screen.

"I just don't think it's safe," Dean hears Castiel say, leaning toward the woman over the table, "there was another..."

Castiel's voice gets quieter, and he says something that Dean can't quite make out. Whatever it was, the woman is frightened by it.

"And he just disappeared?" the woman asks, far louder than they've been speaking, and Dean glances over his shoulder toward them to see Castiel nodding gravely.

“Who was he?”

“His name was Bartholemew,” Castiel says. The familiar name takes a moment to shake loose in Dean's head, but when it does he listens harder, straining to hear what he's saying. “I hadn’t met him before, but when he arrived in town he sought me out. He wanted me to go with him, but I… Well. I didn’t. And it’s just as well, because the boat went missing, too. I think it may be... I read about something like this. That light..."

"You mean Maclay?” she asks, and Dean feels himself break out in goosebumps. “We all read those stories, Castiel. They were fables. To keep us from abusing our gifts. To keep us safe.” There’s a sick feeling building in Dean’s core, making his chest a little tight, his breath a little shallow. "That doesn't mean they weren't based in reality," Castiel tells her, reminding Dean oddly of Benny.

"Please, Anna. Just--for your own sake, don't go out there. Not without knowing for certain what it is. Not without protection. Because if I'm right..."

"Alright," Anna says, "I wont."

Sighing in relief, Castiel leans back in his seat.

"Thank you."

"But that means you can't either," she says. "Promise me."

"I won't. Not unless I have to."

She looks at him for a long moment, contemplative.

"That's the best I'm going to get, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid so."

With a nod, Anna reaches for her purse where it sits on the seat beside her.

"Then I suppose I'll get going."

"You don't have to leave tonight," Castiel says, digging his wallet from his pocket to pay for their drinks. "It's a long drive back. You're welcome to stay with me. It’s been so long."

"I would, but... I don't know if my impulse control is as strong as yours."

Dean frowns at that. _An ex-girlfriend?_ he wonders, and studies them a little more. Despite Anna's words he doesn't detect any kind of tension that isn't related to the light and whatever this Bartholemew guy means to them.

"At least stay for dinner," Castiel asks, and Anna reaches across the table, resting her hand on his. A sudden rap on the bar in front of him catches his attention, and whatever Anna's reply is, he doesn't hear it. He jerks his head around, embarrassed at being caught eavesdropping.

Aaron is there, untying his black apron. He raises his brow.

“You ready to go, or feel like spying on your nemesis a little longer?”

Dean pulls a face.

“Is it really wise to tease the guy who’s driving you home?”

Aaron laughs, ducking down to grab his jacket from the alcove under the bar, and within a couple of minutes they’re on their way. Dean glances back toward Castiel and Anna as they leave, and frowns when he sees them leaning together again, speaking low.

Something is definitely going on.    

* * *

 

It’s five o’clock the following Friday, and Dean's back at The Galley, throwing balled up bits of paper napkin at Aaron for something to do while he waits for Charlie to arrive.

The bar is about as quiet as it gets in the off season, so when the door swings open to let in a chill breeze, there’s no reason to think it will be anyone but her. But when he looks up, he sees two men in faded jeans and worn flannel, both eyeing the interior in a way that seems a little too calculating. One has stringy blond hair under his faded trucker cap, and as he trudges heavily toward the bar Dean sees him rubbing at his thigh with a grimace.

“Damned cold weather,” he says to his friend, heaving himself onto the stool two seats away from Dean, and his voice makes Dean’s blood run cold.

They've both aged, of course, in their late thirties by now, but it's them. The men who had attacked Dean's family. The men who started off that chain of events that lead to Mary and Sam leaving, and tore his family apart. Dean tenses. First the light, and the storms, and now this. It’s too much.

It’s all connected.

“Maker's Mark,” the bigger guy says to Aaron, and plonks a credit card down on the counter, pushing it across the damp wood with stubby, scarred fingers. “Leave the bottle.”

“And pork rinds,” blondie adds.

While they quickly make their way through the bottle, Dean stares hard at his beer and surreptitiously listens to their conversation, but it’s like they’re talking in code. They probably are. He's almost worked his way up to leaving when the bigger one turns to him.

“Hey, bud. You live in town?” he asks, and Dean gulps.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, glancing up for as long as he can bring himself to. “You fellas just passing through?”

“Something like that,” he says with a grin that makes Dean want to punch him. He's missing a few teeth, and Dean figures he mustn't have been the first one to want to knock him around.

“We're actually looking for someone,” blondie cuts in, digging into his pocket and pulling out a creased photograph and smoothing it out between his palms. “Picture's kind of an old one, but maybe you've seen him around?”

He leans around his friend to hand it to over, and Dean's heart pounds. _It's going to be Sam,_ he thinks. They're still looking for Sam. But when he stares down at the picture, though he recognizes the face, it's not the one he was expecting.

It's unmistakably a photo of Castiel Shurley, though he's much younger—maybe seventeen or so—and he's smiling in that placid, bored way that appears nowhere but a school photo. Whatever they want him for, Dean doubts it's anything good. They tried to kidnap Sam. They attacked his mom and Missouri. Could have killed any of them. Almost did. He looks up at them levelly.

“No,” he says, without even thinking about it, and hands the photo back with a steadiness that he's pretty damn proud of, considering. “Can't say I have. Sorry.”

"Too bad," the blond guy says.

“We'll find him,” the big guy says.

“Yeah,” Dean replies, a lump in his throat, and thinks, _not if I can help it._

Standing, Dean slips his jacket on and nods goodbye to the two men before making his way to the door.

When he gets there, he stops, turning back, and catches Aaron's eye over the bar. His friend is frowning at him, evidently confused by his hasty retreat, and Dean angles his eyes toward the two guys before looking back at Aaron and shaking his head once. Aaron only frowns more, so Dean pulls out his phone, wriggling it in the air before he pushes the door open.

Once he's outside, he sends Charlie a quick text to cancel their plans, then another to Aaron.

**D: They're looking for Castiel Shurley.** **Don't tell them anything.**

Aaron replies almost immediately.   
  
**A: Cryptic much? Who are they??**   
  
**D: Don't know, but they were there when my brother disappeared. Can't be good.**   
  
**A: Holy shit!**  
  
 **A: Should I call the cops?**  
  
 **D: No point. No proof. I'm gonna go tell Castiel to watch his back. Just don't tell them anything.**  
  
 **A: I'll let you know when they leave.**  
  
 **D: Thanks.**   
  
He's climbing into his car when he remembers something and snorts out a laugh that’s only a little hysterical.   
  
**D: I stabbed the blond guy with a corkscrew when I was twelve and he's still limping. In case you ever doubted I was a badass.**

Castiel's house is dark and silent when he gets there, and after pounding on the door for a few minutes and pressing his face to the front window until the glass fogs, he goes around the back to see if the garage is open. It's empty. No blue car. No Castiel.

“Crap,” he says to himself, and gets back into his car, heading back down the hill toward the town. His cell buzzes loudly on the passenger seat as he turns out of Redstart Rise.

**A: They just left.**

Dean pushes his foot down a little harder on the gas, and hopes the roads aren't more slippery than they look. He scans the main street for Castiel's blue car, and finally, finally, sees it in the side street beside the supermarket. In the time it takes for him to park and hurry back around the corner toward the entrance, Castiel has emerged with three bags of groceries and is trying to dig his keys out of his pocket.

“Cas!” Dean calls from across the street, and Castiel looks up with a confused expression on his face.

Before Dean can say another word, the big guy—Tommy, Dean remembers, his name is Tommy--emerges from the driveway that runs along the back of the supermarket for deliveries and grabs hold of Castiel. He pulls a dark bag down over his head, pulling the drawstring tight around his neck, and Castiel's entire body goes limp just as a van driven by the blond guy rumbles to a stop beside them.

“Hey!” Dean shouts on reflex, and regrets it immediately when they both turn to look at him. His attempt to run while taking out his phone doesn't go too well, and he fumbles, stumbles, and feels a sharp crack to the back of his skull. He has a split second to wonder, absurdly, if he's been shot, before the darkness rises with the pavement.


	9. A Bolt From The Blue

The cold water drip is what brings him back; a steady tap tap tap against his forehead. _They use this for torture_ , he thinks absently as he blinks in the musty dark, and with it's relentless rhythm numbing his skin, he understands why.

He's alone in the pitch black, head aching, and wherever he is it smells of damp, of rot and salt. There's a flapping sound somewhere nearby, the frenzied beat of wings. He squints, trying to see beyond the reach of his vision, and finds nothing but shadow upon shadow, dark tin and wood and garbage. As far as he can tell, it looks like one of the work sheds down at the old docks just outside town, disused since the coast was torn to shreds by a hurricane more than a decade ago.

Back when he was a teenager, he'd snuck past the keep out signs and chain-link fence with Charlie and Aaron once or twice. It seemed kind of creepy then; all the empty, half-collapsed buildings and abandoned machinery twisted by the storm made it feel like being in a ghost story, draped in salt spray and fog. It's more like a slasher flick, now. Dean can’t help but feel as though the psychopath with the knife is going to be back any minute.

Rough rope binds his wrists together behind his back, and he twists his hands as well as he can, wriggling them in an attempt to get free. They scrape against his skin, burning as he pulls and tugs against whatever it is that he's been tied to. When he gives it another sharp tug, the thing shifts, making a chain rattle, and twists his neck, looking down over his shoulder to see that it's an old, rusted anchor.

“Morons,” he says to himself, and flinches when the word echoes in the dark room, too loud. For a long moment, he holds perfectly still, listening for movement. When none comes he lets out a breath and shuffles carefully forward a few inches, stretching his arms until they slip up over the crossbar so he can grip it enough to pull it over.

Once it's lying down, he works the rope back and forth over the rusted pin until it frays and splits, and barely ten minutes after regaining consciousness he's hunched by the doorway, rubbing his sore wrists.

The door creaks when he pushes it open, and then he can hear the lap of water under the dock. The flapping sound has stopped, and it's disappearance makes him nervous. It's much darker than when he'd first seen Tommy manhandling Castiel into the van, and though the cloud cover is dense and heavy he can just make out the pale glow of a quarter moon high in the sky.

To the right of the building he was in he can make out another, slightly bigger shed. To the left is the collapsing dock.

Looking up toward where the road curves into the trees beyond the chain-link fence that blocks off the docks, he can see their van, half obscured by leaves.

He's making his way toward it, sticking to the shadows as much as he can, when he hears coughing coming from the bigger shed.

The dock creaks under his feet, groaning with every step. Dean grimaces, trying to tread more lightly as he creeps along the side toward the back. Last time he was down here, exploring with Charlie, the wide door at the boat shed’s rear was boarded up save for a small square of particle board leaning over a five-foot gap, and he’s hoping it’s still there.

Halfway along, he pauses beside a window and peers inside. If Tommy and his friend are anywhere inside, he can’t see them. But Castiel is there, and he’s in awful shape. He's leaning heavily against a support beam in the center of the shed, breathing hard as though he's been running, and a dark trickle of blood drips slowly from his nose. His skin is shiny with sweat, his face pale and drawn.

On the floor around him are strange symbols, spray-painted white and spread out in a wide circle, and with a chill it occurs to Dean that he recognizes them. The configuration is a little different, but the loops and whorls and sharp angles are all too familiar. He dreamt of those symbols for years, saw them in every nightmare of that awful day. Saw the spectre of his baby brother clawing at them and shredding his fingernails in the process.

Dean catches his attention through the window, and Castiel’s eyes widen infinitesimally, then narrow in anger.

 _Are they here?_ he mouths, and Castiel just stares at him, either unable to understand what he’s asking or unable to answer, so Dean looks toward the back of the shed. There’s a work bench near the wall, right in front of the gap he remembers, and on top of it he can see his keys, phone and wallet, beside what he assumes must be Castiel’s. He crosses his fingers, hoping the hole in the wall will still be there.

Thankfully, it is, and when he reaches the back he moves it slowly to the side, listening intently for any sound in the shed. All he hears is Castiel breathing. Tugging on the rope that binds him to the beam.

Carefully, he slips inside, crouching behind the workbench and peering around the edge to make sure they aren’t there. When he sees the room is empty, he breathes a sigh of relief and stands.

“Cas?” he whispers, moving quickly forward, “are you alright?”

At the sound of his voice, Castiel flinches, twisting to look behind himself, and when Dean sees the fear in his expression he raises his hands in apology. But instead of the relief he was expecting, the look on Castiel’s face shifts to utter confusion.

“What are you doing here?” he asks darkly, and Dean pulls a face, moving to pull at the end of the rope Castiel is bound by.

“Saving you,” he says with an air of _obviously,_ and Castiel twists further still to look at him with a frown.

“Why?”

Dean narrows his eyes.

“Because I'm an idiot, apparently. Hold still, I think I can get this loose if I just--” he yanks again, but there’s no change in the knot, and as though on cue he hears the sound of voices drifting in from outside, “ _shit_.”

Castiel's gaze moves back to the doorway, and when he looks at Dean again, it’s with a strange mix of confusion and dawning hope.

“If they see you trying to help me, they'll kill you,” he whispers.

“Well, I'm really glad I bothered,” Dean hisses back, still pulling on the rope, “it's been awful knowing you.”

At last it loosens, just a little, but the voices are right outside and Castiel flicks his fingers out at Dean’s hands to make him drop it.

“ _Go_.”

Dropping the rope and hoping Castiel will be able to loosen it the rest of the way on his own, Dean steps back.

“I’ll get help,” he whispers, and runs as quietly as possible toward the back of the shed, ducking behind the workbench and slipping out through the gap just as the main door swings open. His pulse is racing, hands shaking, and he pauses for a couple of seconds outside the shed in the cold air, trying to figure out what to do. They’re about two miles from the nearest houses, and he didn’t think to grab his phone from where it’s sitting on the work bench.

He's swallowing convulsively, feeling a sting in his eyes when one of the men inside laughs and he comes back to himself, hurrying back up the side of the building. Through the window, he sees the two men circling Castiel like sharks.

Taunting him.

The blond one has a knife, running it through a soft cloth in his other hand over and over, while Tommy is holding what looks like a massive syringe. He's slowly screwing something into the end, holding it up to the thin light of the electric lantern hanging from the roof.

“You should be grateful I'm using this,” he says, “it'll be like going to sleep.”

“Aside from the excruciating pain,” the blond one says, pointing his knife for emphasis, and Tommy nods as though conceding to his good point.

“Aside from that.”

“Really though, we’d just kill you now, but you've gotta be alive when we take it,” Blondie goes on, "you understand, I'm sure."

Dean has no idea what to do, but he knows he can't leave Castiel here for the twenty minutes it’ll take to run to the nearest houses, so he he looks back around the docks for something. A weapon, something to use as a distraction, and is nearly bowled over by a swooping owl. It lands roughly on the side of the dock nearby, and stares at him before flapping it’s gray wings out wide and zooming up toward the road, toward the copse of trees that conceals the van. _Perfect_ , he thinks.

Through the window, he makes eye contact with Castiel again. _Keep them talking_ , he mouths, and creeps away until he's far enough that they won’t hear him running.

The van is locked, like he figured it would be, but thankfully the wind is blowing in off the water, and any sound that isn't carried further away from the boatshed will be blocked by the waves and the cover of trees.

He grabs a rock, wraps his jacket around it and uses it to smash the driver's side window before reaching in and unlocking the door. But once he’s inside, he sees the arsenal in the back and decides against driving for help. He doesn’t have the time.

Digging through the back of the van he finds a box of road flares, and he shoves a couple into his back pocket before grabbing the shotgun that’s hanging from the side wall and checking the barrel. Loaded. He shoulders the strap, and hopes he won't have to use it.

When he approaches the shed again, barely four minutes later, he can hear one of the men laughing.

Through the crack in the door he sees the blond guy pressing his knife to Castiel's throat while Tommy tries to grab his arm and hold it still, the syringe held high in his hand. Castiel squirms in his grip, but he looks weak, as though every small movement is ten times more taxing than it should be. Without further thought, Dean ignites a flare and kicks open the main doors, pitching it into the room, and when the two hunters yelp and leap back in shock at the sudden flash and noise, he raises the shotgun.

"Get away from him," he says.

His voice wavers a little, but he aims right at them, and any fear he might be showing only serves to make his trigger finger more threatening. Tommy takes a step back, lowering the syringe and raising his free hand. Blondie just sneers at him, holding his knife tightly.

“I thought you tied him up,” he says, and Tommy rolls his eyes.

“I did.”

Blondie grunts, holding his knife up.

"You have no idea what you're dealing with, kid," he says, "you'd better leave before someone gets hurt."

"Right," Dean says, trying to sound braver than he feels, "because you're just gonna have a nice chat with Cas here. Drop the knife."

Blondie doesn't move. Dean cocks the gun.

"I said drop the _fucking_ knife.”

Finally, with a heavily put-upon sigh, he lets the knife spin downward, point to the ground, and raises his other hand as he lowers it, stepping back. Dean glances at Castiel, who is staring at him like he's completely lost his mind.

"You okay?" Dean asks him.

Castiel swallows, throat spasming with the effort, and nods. Relieved, Dean's shoulders relax a little, and that’s all the opening Blondie needs. Swiftly, he pushes the hem of his shirt to the side, going to grab a handgun that's shoved in his waistband. Dean jerks on reflex, but the shotgun has lowered in his grip, and instead of hitting the man the boatshed floorboards are blasted with buckshot, sending a spray of splinters flying, speckled with flecks of white from the symbols painted there.

Before Blondie has a chance to click the safety off his gun, there's an almighty crack in the room and a blinding flash of light. In the split second when the light flares, Dean thinks he sees a huge expanse of cloud and shadow sprout from Castiel's back. A shape like wings, dark as a storm.

It’s over in an instant, and Dean sees the two men laying spread-eagled on the floor, the floorboards around them singed black and smoking.

He smells burnt hair. Burnt skin. His mouth runs dry.

Blinking away the spots in his eyes, Dean feels a hand close around his arm, and is dragged outside, into icy, fresh air. He breathes it in deeply, leaning with his hands on his knees.

“What the hell just happened?”

“Lightning,” Castiel says simply, as though that’s any explanation at all, and looks around warily, “We need to run, Dean. They may have had accomplices.”

Dean points up toward the road, and together they move swiftly.

Overhead, the owl he’d seen earlier swoops low and hoots loudly, its wingbeats loud in the night. Castiel looks up, says something in a low, guttural tongue, and then glances at Dean as the owl flies away, up into the trees.

“There's someone there,” he says, and when Dean glances back down toward the docks he can make out a single boat on the water, pulling up beside the barely-standing dock.

They pick up their pace. There’s a tingling at his neck, an itching, and when Dean looks back over his shoulders again, beyond the boat, he can see the light out on the water, brighter than ever.

The air is cold in Dean's lungs, sharp and painful. When they’re finally out of sight of the docks, hidden in the trees, he allows himself to cough, hands on his knees as he leans forward to catch his breath.

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks him, and Dean nods, eyes watering in the cold.

“Okay,” he wheezes, “you need to deal.”

“What?”

“What the hell is going on?”

Castiel's jaw tenses, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Look, I get it, okay? You don't like me. That's fine. But those guys kidnapped us. And now they’re… I’m pretty fucking sure they’re _dead_. Like it or not, we're both up shit creek right now, and I just think it'd be a hell of a lot easier to deal with if you'd tell me something resembling the truth.”

Castiel stares at him.

"You really have no idea," he says, brow furrowing, "do you?"

Dean just raises his hands.

"Okay," Castiel breathes, nodding to himself, running a hand over his throat where the skin is still a little red from Blondie’s knife. "Alright. Let's just get someplace safe first."

"And then you'll tell me what's going on?"

"Yes," Castiel says, "I promise."

The old docks aren't too far from Redstart Rise, and Dean immediately starts heading for the road, planning to walk the half hour up the steady incline, eager to get into the warmth of his living room. Before he gets more than two paces, though, Castiel catches his arm.

"Where are you going?" he asks.

"Home," Dean says, “and then I’m calling the cops.”

Castiel shakes his head.

"By the time we do that, their friend will have already found them. There’ll be nothing there. And then he's going to come for me, and I'm sure he'll canvas the other houses on Redstart Rise."

"Shit," Dean says, "I don't know where else--wait, how about my boat? It's out at the new docks. We can head there, figure out what's going on."

Castiel agrees, and they turn, heading along the edge of the road in the other direction, sticking to the tree line in case they need to duck for cover.

  
  



	10. The Truth

It takes close to an hour to get to the docks, and by the time they reach them, the air has turned icy. Just as they take their first steps down onto the slippery boardwalk, a couple of stray snowflakes float down before them.

 

It's still cold in the boat's cabin, but it's dry, and Dean locks the door behind them, pulling down the blinds over the portholes and switching on the light. When he turns to face Castiel, he sees him dropping Dean’s wallet and keys on the table, apparently having picked them up before pulling Dean out of the building. He glances up and holds out Dean’s phone. A spiderweb of cracks covers the screen.

“They broke mine, too,” he says, and Dean takes the now useless phone, dumping it onto the narrow couch behind him.

“Okay,” he says, sitting down. “Deal.”

Castiel doesn't respond for a long moment, and Dean waves his hand impatiently.

“You promised,” he says.

“I did,” Castiel agrees, finally sitting down opposite him, scratching nervously at the upholstery. Dean just barely stops himself from telling him to cut it out. “I'm just not entirely sure how to approach this conversation.”

“Truth is probably a good place to start,” Dean says wryly. “Just a suggestion.”

Castiel narrows his eyes at that.

“I'm not human,” he blurts out. “Not completely, anyway.”

Dean's blood runs cold, because he believes it. Immediately, irrefutably, he believes it. But he snorts.

“Of course not.”

Castiel sighs, looking up at the roof as if very put upon. As though Dean’s being unreasonable.

“You understand the idea of there being four elements?” he says.

“There's more than four elements,” Dean says stubbornly, and Castiel narrows his eyes.

“Will you please just try to—”

Miming a zipper across his mouth, Dean waves him on with his free hand.

“The four elements are Earth, Air, Fire and Water,” Castiel starts, and Dean mimes the zipper back open.

“And you are Captain Planet?”

Castiel glares. Dean raises his hands and presses his mouth closed. He knows he’s being a brat, but in all honesty, he's freaking the hell out. This is the only way he knows how to deal with it.

“I govern the element of air,” Castiel says, and nope, Dean can’t deal with this. Not yet.

“Like some kind of wizard,” he says, nodding, “of course. That would explain the owl.”

“I'm not a _wizard_ ,” Castiel says icily, getting visibly pissed off with the attitude, and Dean shakes his head, looking at the floor. This isn't real, he thinks. It can't be real.

"Then what?" Dean asks.

“I am praenuntia.”

Dean feels all the oxygen leave his body in an instant, punched out of him violently. He covers his face with his hands.

“This is... this is too much,” he mutters.

“Do you still want me to tell you?” Castiel asks, his voice concerned, and Dean can’t bring himself to look up at him for a long moment. When he does, he takes a deep breath. Catches sight of worried blue eyes and a downturned mouth, and knows that praenuntia or not, Castiel isn’t a threat.

 _He’s not human_ , Dean thinks abruptly, and looks away. Back to the floor, to his hands. _How can he not be human?_

“How about,” Dean says slowly, trying not to let his voice betray how rattled he is, “how about we start a little smaller?”

“Okay,” Castiel agrees.

"Your bird. That owl. That was your bird, wasn’t it?”

Castiel nods.

“His name is Euripides.”

"You were talking to him."

"Yes."

"Is he..."

"He is not just a bird," Castiel says carefully, "he's a familiar. A companion spirit."

“Okay,” Dean says, shaking his head and raising his hands, “that’s still… let’s go smaller. Why were those guys were after you?”

“They were... not good men.”

“No shit,” Dean says, and Castiel sighs.

“They were hunters,” he says, “I fear this is not going to be a small answer either, Dean.”

Dean ignores him.

“Hunters?” he asks.

“Of the supernatural,” Castiel explains carefully, eyeing Dean like he’s worried he’s going to run, or vomit, or both, and frankly Dean doesn’t blame him. “They track and eliminate what they perceive to be supernatural threats, and unfortunately, to most, a praenuntia is most certainly a threat.”

Fighting off the shudder that tries to roll through him, Dean makes his best attempt at a cocky grin.

“You're not even remotely threatening,” he says.

Castiel glares at him as though that were an insult.

“I can be,” he says haughtily, “whether I wish it or not. Were I to lose control, my influence on the elements could result in all manner of disasters. Hurricanes, tornadoes, cyclones. That kind of thing.”

“Oh, sure. Of course.”

“Or I could just force the oxygen from your lungs,” he goes on, “for example.”

Staring at him, Dean gulps.

“I wouldn’t, though,” Castiel adds sheepishly, “obviously.”

“Obviously,” Dean repeats, “yeah.”

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Castiel almost looks embarrassed, and Dean can’t help but find it kind of cute. _He just said he could kill you with a thought, you freak_ , Dean chides himself, and that wipes the smile from his face quick. He clears his throat.

“So,” he says, trying to get back on track, “these hunters. They thought they were doing the world a service?”

“Well, that’s debatable,” Castiel says with a frown. “Most hunters, from what I’ve heard, only kill supernatural beings for what they believe is the greater good…”

“But these guys?”

“Based on the things they were saying, I think it's far more likely that they meant to poach my body parts to sell to witches,” he says with a grimace, “that's why I'm not particularly remorseful about the lightning.”

Dean stares at him. He's not sure which part of that to address first.

“They were going to _what_ your body parts?” he asks, finally, and Castiel shifts in his seat again.

“My body is extremely valuable on the black market. Those men were intending to... they were going to exsanguinate me, and then I expect once I was dead they'd have taken my bones, fingernails, and hair.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean says, sinking back against the couch, his head spinning. “What the fuck did they want with Sam?”

“Who's Sam?”

Dean blinks, looking over at him, and clears his throat. He didn't mean to say that out loud.

“He's, uh... it's not important,” Dean lies, and judging by the look on Castiel’s face, he knows it. “It was a long time ago.”

“Dean—“

“Forget it. Please. Can we change the subject?”

“We can,” Castiel says, sitting back and studying Dean thoughtfully. “I've dealt. So now it's your turn.”

“My turn?”

“To tell me what you are.”

That’s not what he would have expected. Dean blinks. Frowns.

“What I _am_?”

“Yes.”

“Besides really fucking confused?”

“I've been trying to figure it out. You claim not to know about any of this, and you seem genuinely uneducated in the supernatural, and yet… I thought you were a witch.”

“I’m not that ugly,” Dean shoots back, and one side of Castiel’s mouth twitches upward.

“No, you’re certainly not. But I've been able to sense it since the moment I walked into The Galley, just after I moved here. You give off a feeling like… it’s like a blood spell, used to suppress praenuntial power. I thought you were the source of it all. I thought the light--”

“God, I hate that light,” Dean cuts him off, rubbing his hands over his eyes, “and I can’t stop thinking about it. You know, in the hour we’ve been here I’ve wanted to haul anchor and aim right for it about ten times?”

With his hands on his knees, Castiel leans forward, and Dean sees a tick in his jaw.

“If you’re lying to me--”

“I’m not, I swear,” Dean raises his hands. “Please don’t crush my lungs.”

“You shouldn’t be able to feel the ether,” Castiel says. “No human should.”

“Huh,” Dean says, raising his eyebrows. “Well. Yeah. I don’t know what to tell you. I’m just a guy.”

For a moment, Castiel appears thoughtful, and then he reaches out, his hand stopping a few scant inches away from the center of Dean's chest.

“It's humming, here,” he says. “Something at your center. Radiating out.”

Putting his own palm over the place where Castiel’s hand is hovering, Dean feels the cool, hard lump of his pendant under his shirt. With a frown, Dean pulls at the cord and flips it out into his palm, and Castiel sucks in a breath, staring down at it, before turning his hand over.

“May I?” he asks.

Reluctantly, Dean slips off the pendant and hands it over, and at once, the compulsion to seek out the light fades.

“It’s gone,” Dean says.

“Hmm?”

“The prickly feeling. The gotta-get-to-the-light feeling.”

“That's not surprising,” Castiel says, inspecting it closely, holding the pendant gingerly between thumb and forefinger, “this is an augur's amulet, and it’s been anointed with the blood of a praenuntia.”

Dean just stares at him blankly.

“I have no idea what that means, dude.”

Castiel glances over at him, turning the pendant around to look at all sides.

“Alone, the amulet is used to warn the wearer of approaching danger or opportunity, but with the blood… it’s been charged, essentially, to detect those things which specifically affect praenuntia.”

For a long moment, Castiel just stares at the amulet, and when he looks back at Dean it’s with apprehension. As though he’s afraid of the response to what he’s about to say.

“Dean,” he says, low and cautious, “Who is Sam?”

“My brother,” Dean says thickly. “He’s my brother.”

“This was his, wasn’t it?”

Dean nods.

“And those hunters took him?”

Swallowing hard, Dean forces himself to speak.

“They tried,” he says, and his voice sounds small, like someone else is talking. He barely recognises the sound. “but we ran. Mom held them off.”

“He doesn’t live in town,” Castiel says, like he already knows the answer, and Dean shakes his head.

“No, he… Mom took him somewhere. The next day. They both just left, and it was… god, it was more than half my life ago. It’ll be eighteen years this April. Sam will be twenty six. I don’t even know if they’re...”

Dean stops, chewing on the inside of his cheek. The words _if they’re alive_ are heavy in his mouth, even if he didn’t say them.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel tells him, and the solemnity in his voice is more than Dean expects. He waves it off.

“Least they both got away from my dad,” Dean says, and though he meant it as a joke it comes out a little hollow, a little too serious. He plasters on a grin anyway. He’s pretty sure Castiel sees through it, but thankfully he doesn’t comment. Just presses on.

“Did you ever notice anything strange about him?” Castiel asks, and Dean can already see where he's going with this. He stubbornly shakes his head. Castiel seems to see straight through him. "Dean, tell me."

Covering his eyes, Dean grits his teeth. He remembers the fire in the basement, and the grass that got greener on that last afternoon before the storms came. He remembers those storms, how they always seemed to crop up when Sam got upset. He heaves out a breath before meeting Castiel's eyes.

“There were… there’s a few things that, maybe, _maybe_ could have been... but how could he be? I mean, he’s my little _brother_. We have the same parents.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Like hell it doesn’t,” Dean says, defensive, and Castiel shakes his head.

“No, I mean… praenuntia procreate through a process similar to some of the more base supernatural creatures. Like… well, you understand how a vampire is created when a human gets bitten, and then ingests the blo--”

“A vampire,” Dean repeats, cutting him off.

“Like in the movies,” Castiel says, as though Dean’s an idiot.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry,” Dean shakes his head, rubbing over his face as he laughs, “after everything else I thought you were trying to tell me that vampires are real.”

“They are.”

“Oh,” Dean says again, and feels his mouth running dry, “okay.”

“Anyway,” Castiel hurries to go on before Dean can dwell too heavily on that. “It’s similar in that a praenuntia must give a part of themselves to the human, like the vampire with it’s blood, however it’s a little different in that it doesn’t actually affect the human it is given to. It acts more like a recessive gene, if that makes sense, and it lays dormant in the human it was given to until they have children.”

Dean’s still a little stuck on _vampires are real_ , but he valiantly pushes past it.

“So you’re saying, what? That one of my parents got whammied before Sam was born?”

“It’s possible,” Castiel allows, but he looks perplexed.

“But it doesn’t usually happen that way,” Dean guesses. Castiel shakes his head.

“Normally, praenuntia gift the power to someone they are close with, someone who knows what they are and what it means, because a child raised with no understanding of their own power, and no guidance…” he trails off, concern lining his features, “I can’t imagine how dangerous they would be.”

“There were storms,” Dean admits, glancing at him sideways, “whenever our parents fought, or when Sam got scared, or upset… there’d be storms. Couple of big ones.”

“Do you know if anything happened to either of your parents?” Castiel asks, “before Sam was born?”

Shaking his head, Dean wracks his brain until a memory is abruptly shaken loose.

A memory of his parents fighting, the last fight he saw, the night before Sam’s birthday party. _“Don't you remember Corpus Christi?”_ Mary had said, and she was holding a book. A book covered in symbols that he saw again two days later, all over the door to the spare room at Harry Moseley’s house. She’d wanted to show it to Sam. She'd wanted to tell Sam something that John hadn’t wanted to hear.

He looks up at Castiel.

“I think… I think I need to call my dad,” Dean says.

  
John doesn’t pick up, and Dean’s not surprised.

 

The tinny ring goes on and on and on, finally cutting off with a gruff “John Winchester” and a sustained beep, and Dean doesn’t bother leaving a message. He glances over at Castiel, standing guard outside of the only remaining phone booth in Jackpine Harbor, and shakes his head.

“He’s not home,” he says. He’s about to step back out into the fog when he has an idea. Castiel raises his brow at the look on his face, watching as Dean dials directory assistance. “There’s someone else I can try.”

Lucky for him, Missouri Mosely hasn’t moved house, and she accepts the collect call.

“Dean Winchester,” she says as soon as she picks up. “It’s good to hear from you, even if it is seventeen years late in the middle of the damn night.”

“Sorry,” he says.

“None of that,” she says, no nonsense as ever. “Something’s wrong.”

“Yeah,” Dean tells her, looking down at the silver cord of the payphone and drumming against it with his fingers, “I’m okay now, but I need to know... this might be a weird question, but was there ever anything strange about Sam?”

“Dean, it really isn't my place to—”

“Please, Missouri.”

There’s a long pause, and even though it’s been years Dean can picture the look on her face. Thoughtful and careful, like she’s weighing her words.

“You have to understand, I promised your parents I wouldn't get involved any further than I had to. They didn’t want you to know any of this.”

“Mom left me with Dad when I was twelve, Missouri,” Dean tells her, “and I could count the amount of hours he spent actually raising me on one hand. I don't really give a crap what they want. Tell me. I'm in some serious shit right now and I need to know. Please. I _need_ to know.”

She tuts at his language, but doesn’t otherwise comment, and he clears his throat.

“The hunters were here,” he says, and by the way she sucks in a breath, he knows she knows exactly what that means. “The ones who tried to take Sam.”

"What do you know about hunters?"

"Not enough."

On the other end of the line, Missouri sighs heavily, and Dean hears her sink down onto her couch.

“There's a lot to tell,” she says finally.

Dean slumps against the payphone wall.

“I've got time.”

  
  



	11. Missouri

Lawrence, Kansas  
1987

In the summer of 1987, Missouri Moseley says a heartfelt good riddance to the loud, obnoxious Allans—ever-yapping pomeranian included—and welcomes the Winchester family to Ironwood Drive.

John Winchester, she decides on their first meeting, is a good man at heart, but is neither kind nor calm. She senses a restlessness in him, and a constant need for control that she doesn't much trust. Mary, on the other hand, she likes immediately, and the two of them bond over the fence on hot afternoons, sharing cool glasses of iced tea while Sam and Dean play in the back yard.

The older boy is a sweetheart, if a little cheeky, and his younger brother is sharp as anything. Even at age four he's shooting up like a weed, and she has no doubt little Sammy is going to be towering over the lot of them before too long.

There's something about him, though. Something a little odd. It's an energy that she had, at first, suspected was a kind of latent psychic ability, pinging her own sixth sense out of recognition. As time wears on she becomes less certain.

It's power, whatever it is, and she decides to keep a close eye on things.

There are storms, she notices, more frequently around their neighborhood than there had been prior to the family's arrival. Storms on days when none have been forecast. Massive, thunderous rainstorms, which invariably occurred on days when she'd hear John and Mary arguing. Despite her fears, all tests for demons turn up nothing at all.

Missouri knows better than to put anything down to coincidence, though, and as such she never lets her guard down. She gives Mary gifts of flowers and plants which are less for aesthetics and more for protection and warding, and tries as often as she can to understand what exactly it is about Sam Winchester that isn't quite right.

It's not until 1991, in the month leading up to Sam's eighth birthday, that she happens across a man in the grocery store who's asking about the weather they've had over the past few weeks and giving off the definite feeling of a hunter, and a bad one at that. He's young, and ignorant, and his openness to the supernatural combined with his lack of warding against psychics means she's more than able to see what exactly it is he's looking for.

The inside of his head is a dark place, violent and greedy, and the word at the center is _praenuntia_. He has a thirst for blood, and for money, and she purses her lips as she passes him at the cash register.

She doesn't go home. Instead she takes the short drive to the opposite side of town to visit with her brother, whose collection of books is one to rival most libraries, and looks for anything to do with praenuntia that she can find.

There aren't many.

One is a terrifying account of volatile, reckless creatures who govern the elements and use their powers to wreak havoc on humankind and nature alike, and she wonders if this is the book most hunters base their understanding on. Another is a little more level-headed in its approach, and she suspects it is far more accurate.

The third is presented almost in the form of a dramatized biography; a story about a man named Elias Maclay that seems as though it may actually have been written in order to educate young praenuntia on the duality of their powers, each chapter showing a different side to their abilities. Creation and destruction, good and evil, life and death.

She takes the books, and devours all three within an afternoon.

By the time she's done, she's convinced without a shadow of doubt that Sam is praenuntia, though how he came to be one without his family's knowledge is a mystery. The next afternoon, she takes a moment while waiting for the coffee to brew in Mary's kitchen to steer the conversation toward unexplained phenomena to see how Mary will react, and is surprised to see how tense her friend becomes.

With barely any mental prodding, she sees Mary's memory of a presence in the sea. The memory of a flash of yellow eyes and the breath of life. An offer of a gift and a sinister smile. Confirmation.

“Mary,” she says carefully, resting her hands palm down on the table top, “why don't you tell me about Corpus Christi?”

Mary's eyes grow wide.

“Hmm?” she says, fiddling with the filter.

“In the water. Before you had Sam.”

“What do you—”

“Mary,” Missouri says, “this is important. Please.”

“I never told anyone about that,” Mary says, sinking into the seat opposite her. “Not even John.”

“You saw something out there. A man.”

Mary nods.

“But he wasn't a man,” Missouri says, “was he?”

Hesitantly, Mary shakes her head. Her eyes look wet.

“I don't... he was...”

Missouri reaches out to take her hands.

“He did something to you,” she says, “gave you something.”

“A gift,” Mary says, “he said he was going to give me a gift. But I never... I thought it was a dream.”

“He did give you something,” Missouri tells her, “and you gave it to Sam.”

Mary frowns, worried, and Missouri squeezes her hands warmly.

“It's alright,” she says, hushing Mary’s fearful gasp, “he's okay.”

“What is it? What did I—”

“He's special,” Missouri says, “like I always said. Just a little more than we thought.”

“Special like... the way you're special?” Mary asks, and Missouri smiles, shaking her head.

“He doesn't have the sight. But he's got power, and I've got a book for you. And another for Sam, if you're alright with him having it.”

“I don't—”

“You just let me know,” Missouri assures her. “Just read the book and let me know.”

  
  



	12. The Proverbial Moth

When Dean finally hangs up the receiver, he’s been on the phone half an hour, and his cheek feels hot and uncomfortable.

“What did she say?” Castiel asks. Dean heaves out a breath, filling him in on everything Missouri told him, from the memory she saw in Mary’s minds eye to the truth of Sam’s power. By the time Dean has finished they’re back at the docks, clambering into the Meridian.

“And that’s not all,” he says, sliding the lock home once they’re safely inside and turning back to face Castiel. “She said she didn’t know exactly where Mom took Sam, but they were going to meet with a hunter Missouri knew. A good one. Last she heard, he’d tracked down a praenuntia near Yellowstone who agreed to help Sam.”

Dean is beaming, and slowly, he sees his expression reflected on Castiel’s face.

“They’re alive,” he says, cheeks already starting to hurt, and is so shocked when Castiel surges forward to hug him that he lets out a slightly hysterical laugh, squeezing him back. _He smells good_ , Dean thinks, and laughs again. Definitely hysteria. “I think I need a drink.”

When Castiel huffs out a laugh in response, Dean feels it rumbling through him, warm against his chest. He pulls away, rubbing his hand over his face.

“Alright,” he says for no good reason, still grinning as he looks around for the cooler he left behind after the day trip to Steeple Island. There’s a few beers swimming in the melted ice at the bottom, and he pulls one out, offering it to Castiel before taking another for himself.

They’ve been sitting in comfortable silence for a few minutes, nursing their drinks while the boat rocks gently against the dock, when Castiel speaks up.

“So I have a theory,” he says carefully. “About that light.”

“Yeah?”

“There’s this book,” Castiel begins, “called _The Ether Bright_ , and it talks about--”

“I’ve read it,” Dean cuts him off, already nervous about the direction this conversation is headed, and Castiel’s brow raises. “Sam left it behind. I thought… I always thought it was just fiction.”

“That seems to be the general consensus," Castiel agrees. "But it isn't."

"I gathered."

"Well, I did a little research, and apparently when this area was first settled, Steeple Island was called Twin Pillar Isle. But then there was a freak earthquake in 1795, and the two stone pillars it was named for fell in together.”

“So the light by Steeple Island--”

“Is the same light Elias Maclay encountered,” Castiel says gravely. “And that means it’s not there by accident.”

It’s a part of the story that Dean remembers well; the rift in the world was forced to split open, and as light poured out from that other place, the place outside reality, praenuntia are pulled in. They're called and tempted until they were too close to stop themselves, and with every elemental soul that was devoured by the rift, it grew wider, letting more things out.

He shudders at the thought.

“Why would someone want to do that?” he asks, eyes wide. “I mean, unless I read it wrong, if that rift gets big enough the whole damn world is gonna get overrun by fucking monsters.”

“It's likely that they only understood the basics,” Castiel says with a shrug. “The light described in Elias Maclay’s story is made up of etheric material, and any hunter worth his salt knows the effect that ether has on praenuntia. I expect they intended to attract a whole host of praenuntia so they could kill us off one by one,” Castiel pauses, thoughtful, “It’s a clever plan, in it’s own way.”

“Oh, yeah. Real frickin’ impressive.”

“Tactically speaking, yes,” Castiel says, nodding, apparently missing Dean’s sarcasm completely. “But we can't let the plan succeed.”

Why he even feels the need to say that is beyond Dean, but he continues to explain before Dean can stop him.

“At least one praenuntia has already died, and I’ve had to talk two more who were drawn here into leaving town. It’s the only reason I stayed. If too many are killed it will only cause mass catastrophe. Even if we do manage to find a way to close the rift.”

“How?”

“The entire reason we exist is to create balance on earth,” he explains. “Everything from the amount of minor volcanic eruptions that need to occur, to the thermohaline circulation that regulates the global climate. Killing a lot of us would throw everything off. Not to mention the fact that if a lot of us get drawn here, this particular part of the world is likely to become terribly unstable.”

He shrugs.

“Even just the storms caused by my own loss of control were damaging, and I managed to reel most of them in before they got to full power.”

“Wait, so that storm when I helped you with your bird--that was you?”

“Almost all the storms we’ve had since I moved here have been,” Castiel says apologetically, “usually I’m far better at regulating my powers and keeping them in check, but the light… it’s… well. It makes control difficult. And if I get scared, or angry, or… experience any other strong emotion that goes unchecked, it’s even harder to reign in.”

Castiel sighs, looking at him sheepishly.

“Dean, I think I owe you an apology.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been unforgivably rude to you since I moved here. The reason I was so angry that night was entirely in my own head.”

“You thought I was a witch planning to harvest your spleen,” Dean tells him. There’s a sentence he never thought he’d hear himself saying.

“Still,” he says, “I feel badly about it. You kept trying to befriend me.”

“Yeah, I guess I’m just a glutton for punishment,” Dean jokes, “don’t sweat it.”

Smiling, Castiel dips his head.

“Thank you,” he says, and Dean smiles back.

The pendant--augur's amulet, he reminds himself--still sits on the table, and Dean studies it quietly before picking it up. The moment he touches it, he feels that magnetic pull again, stronger than ever. Like electricity humming under his skin. He tenses, looking up at Castiel.

“It’s stronger,” he says simply, and Castiel nods. “How are you holding it together so well?”

“Talking is taking my mind off it,” Castiel says with a shrug, “though it’s not easy.”

“So lets go check it out,” Dean says. “We can put up, what were they? Wards? Like Elias Maclay? I’ll wear the pendant so I know when we’re getting too close, and we can figure out how to stop it.”

“You're crazy,” Castiel says. Dean grins.

“It’s been said.”

  
  


* * *

  
The water is rough, but not so much that it's dangerous, and Dean's been navigating these waters since before he started shaving. He aims for the light, and the closer they get, the more it seems to call to them.

 

Even through the wards--painted all along the Meridian’s deck--its pull is strong.

Soon, Dean can almost feel it curling around his limbs, his internal organs, his soul. When they’re only a mile or so away the prickling sensation fades to be replaced by one of deceptive comfort. It's warm, and sweet, and soothing, and he wonders if it feels the same for Castiel or if it's stronger. Looking across at him where he stands, rigid and tense at the bow as rain begins to fall, Dean thinks that it’s probably worse. He touches the pendant around his neck, and takes a deep breath.

When they finally get close enough, they can see a cluster of dark rocks sticking up out of the water at the edge of the light, and there’s something fixed to them--a pale bundle of what could be sticks but which Dean’s gut tells him are bones. Dropping the anchor before they get any nearer, he makes his way over to Castiel, whose hands are tight around the railing at the bow. Knuckles white. Expression tense.

“You okay?” Dean asks, resting his hand on Castiel’s shoulder and squeezing.

Almost in answer, a low rumble of thunder sounds overhead, rolling across the sky, and Castiel lets out a long breath through his nose. He shakes his head.

“It’s…” he starts, and swallows, pressing his eyes closed. The light is nearly fifty feet away, and where it meets the water its calm and still. A circle at least the size of the boat, unaffected by the storm. All around it, the waves are churning, wind-whipped whitecaps that send spray up onto the deck when they crash against the boat.

“This was a bad idea,” Dean says as the rain grows heavier, and he sees a vein in Castiel’s throat pulse, stress making his entire body rigid and tense.

“Terrible,” he agrees, and his voice is strained, “I can’t look at it. I--it’s too--”

The wind picks up, sending the rain in icy sheets that chill down to the bone, and Dean pulls lightly at Castiel’s shoulder.

“Come on,” he says, almost having to shout to be heard over the growing wind. “Why don’t you head back below deck, and I’ll take us back?”

“Can’t,” Castiel says stiffly. “I want-- I’m trying--”

Another peal of thunder roars, louder this time, and the lightning comes a split second after, setting everything ablaze in blue white. Castiel’s grip tightens on the railing. They’re rocking, now, lurching dangerously from side to side, and with every passing moment the wind gets stronger, the waves higher, the rain heavier.

“We need to find out--” he says, but his eyes are still squeezed shut, “Dean, we have to--it can’t--”

Another crack of thunder comes as the sky is split by lightning, the storm right on top of them.

“Cas, please tell me you can get this storm under control,” Dean says, nervously staring up into the dark clouds.

With each flash of lightning he sees it: a swirling mass of black like ink dripped into water, and as he watches the clouds stretch down in a dark funnel, hitting the ocean's surface on the other side of the light and ripping it to shreds. Castiel doesn’t answer. His grip on the railing is vicelike, his jaw locked.

“I’m gonna haul anchor,” Dean shouts. “Just hold on.”

Holding tightly to the railing, Dean pushes against the wind, making his way back to the helm to start the anchor winch and pull life jackets from the wall. He’s about to slip his own over his head and take the other to Castiel when the boat pitches violently in the wake of a huge wave, and he’s sent stumbling backwards, jackets slipping from his grip as he goes overboard, crashing back first into the freezing water.

For a moment when he plunges under, he’s in quiet darkness. Suspended in seemingly endless black. But when the water drags him sideways, spinning him, he sees the light slicing through it, down, down beyond the reach of his vision.

Pushing to the surface is tough, but he makes it after a few seconds, and the onslaught of sound is tremendous. Thunder and hammering rain, the sound of Castiel shouting for him in a voice so pained that Dean’s almost glad he can’t see him.

Staying afloat feels almost impossible, and the rain is heavy enough that it almost doesn’t matter. He could drown, he thinks, just standing on the deck.

The Meridian is too far away already.

The water feels like needles driving into his skin, stinging cold all over, and as he desperately treads, trying to keep his head above the constant onslaught of waves, he’s dragged further and further from the boat. Toward the rocks. Toward the light.

Dimly, he can still hear Castiel shouting for him, but he can’t see a thing until an orange lifebuoy lands with a loud thwack a few feet in front of him, rescue light blinking red, and he kicks against the undertow, reaching out with numb fingers to grasp at the slippery ring.

With a few hard kicks he manages to loop his arm through the center, but he’s already drifted too far, and barely a second after he’s caught the buoy he knows he’s in the light.

For a moment, everything seems to stop.

Dean feels himself stretched thin as paper, light as air. He can feel everything. Can see more than he can comprehend. His past and his present and his future and things that will never be. Impossible things. They’re all one, all the same.

He can taste the ocean air and the mud at it’s floor and the electricity that thrums in the sky above. He feels his teeth sinking into another place. Another sky. Another Earth. Tastes it all, knows it all.

He sees himself from without, standing on the edge of a ravine. In a city. Lost in a barren field. Floating in darkness, in water, in space.

Something breathes, hot breath bubbling against his neck, but he can’t see it. Can’t even feel any movement other than that within him, his blood slowing in his veins until he can hear it, the platelets pressing against each other, the expansion and contraction of the valves of his heart. The thing, the beast, he knows, breathes again, shifts just outside his line of vision, and he’s almost relieved when he feels the touch of fingers, nails, claws on his ankles, pulling him down and away from it’s hungry mouth.

He can’t truly see, but he knows the things dragging him down have teeth like needles, like the spiny fangs of an anglerfish. From their wrists to their waists their fins extend like wings, dark and speckled with red like the blood of those they’ve taken before. He sees them behind his eyes, in the bright space, how they spill from the light, from a rift of nothing in the water, pouring out in wave after wave of squirming fins and scaled skin, and he's transfixed and terrified when he's yanked sharply back to the surface, out of their grip and away from the light.

He's blinded, eyes spotty and stinging, and though he's vaguely aware of being dragged onto a solid surface it doesn't occur to him that he can breathe again until someone slaps him, hard.

“Dean!”

Air is sweet, and he pulls it in, clutches at the source of warmth on his arms blindly, holding on for life, and it doesn't register that it's a person until it pulls away. Clatters away over floorboards.

When his vision clears he tilts his head to see the light behind them, growing smaller by the second. The line of it is reflected in the choppy water, and as they crash and smack down over every crest Dean feels his head begin to clear.

He’s in a life jacket now, and his pendant is gone. When he crawls across the deck, hauling himself up by the railing, he sees Castiel at the helm, hands firm on the controls as he steers them away from the light and back toward the shore. He’s soaked to the bone, dark hair matted against his forehead and his blue shirt almost black against his skin. The way he’s so focused on getting them back to land, still visibly struggling to reign in the storm that the ether pulled out of him, is at once thrilling and frightening.

When they hit another wave, slamming down on the other side, Dean catches hold of his arm to steady himself and feels Castiel flinch at the sudden contact, apparently unaware of his approach.

Now though, he’s staring back at Dean with wide eyes, his hair dripping, and perhaps it's the fact that Dean's brain is still a little starved for oxygen that makes him ignore the _bad idea_ alarm currently blaring in his head, but whatever the reason he reaches for him, hooks a hand around the back of his head to tangle in his wet hair and pull him forward.

Castiel’s lips are cold but his breath is warm, and they’re pliant against Dean’s own. He lets the tip of his tongue sweep out, catching the taste of Castiel under the saltwater they’re soaked in, sweet and perfect. Dean can't get enough.

Still, it isn't until Castiel makes a surprised noise that Dean fully realizes what he's doing. He pulls back, wide eyed, and drops his hands from where they’d been roaming Castiel’s sides. Castiel clears his throat. For a long moment, neither of them speaks. The rumble of the engine is loud behind the sound of his rushing pulse.

“Thanks,” Dean says, finally, a little breathless, and Castiel wipes water from his eyes with trembling fingers, "for, uh... pulling me out."

"You're welcome," Castiel says stiffly.

“So do you, um… maybe, uh... you should head back inside? Get out of the rain, or whatever. I can--” Dean gestures vaguely at the controls, and Castiel glances down at them before he nods, stepping awkwardly back. “There’s spare clothes. Under the couch.”

“Alright,” he says, and thankfully, he goes back below the deck before Dean has to think of anything else to say.

Dean spends the remaining minutes of the journey wondering if there’s any chance they can just forget that it ever happened. But his lips still taste of Castiel, salty and sweet, and he doubts he ever will.

 

  
  



	13. Hideout

They've been stopped for all of two minutes when Castiel emerges from below deck, dressed in Dean’s old Styx t-shirt and a pair of ill-fitting jeans, and drying off his hair with a thin, fraying towel that Dean last used to scrub down the floor. Dean slips past him with an awkward smile, heading inside to strip out of his own soaked clothes.

He sees his pendant hanging from the hook where the towel had been, and decides to leave it there. When he comes back outside, dry as he’s going to get and slipping his arms into yellow plaid, Castiel is sitting with his back against the boats cabin, shivering in the cold. He catches the blue flannel shirt Dean throws toward him one handed, and shuffles to the side to make space on the damp towel he’s sitting on.

Dean rubs the back of his neck, sitting down beside him mainly to avoid having to maintain eye contact, and tenses. Waits for the inevitable rejection.

"I'm sorry," Castiel says once he’s seated, voice rougher than usual, eyes flicking guiltily over toward Dean, "I never intended for that to happen."

"Oh," Dean replies, and tries not to feel disappointed.

“You could have died,” Castiel goes on, "because I lost control. The wards should have stopped it from affecting me that much. I don’t know why they didn’t."

"Wait," Dean puts up a hand, "what exactly are you apologizing for?"

"Putting you in danger," Castiel says with a perplexed frown, and even as Dean sighs inwardly in relief that it’s not the kiss Castiel is sorry about, he sends a frown right back.

“You _saved_ me,” he says. Castiel just shakes his head.

“I almost _killed_ you. I couldn't even focus enough to make sure you were getting air. I govern the air, Dean, and I couldn't do it."

"Well, I'm alive, so you know. No harm, no foul. And anyway, it was my stupid idea that sent us out there in the first place. If anyone should be sorry, it’s me.”

Dean pauses, looking down at his knuckles. He can feel Castiel’s eyes on him, his gaze a heavy weight.

“Did you see them?” he asks, risking a glance to the side, “the…”

“Sirens,” Castiel says, “I did.”

“So we’re too late,” Dean says, “the rift is already wide enough to let them in.”

“No,” Castiel tells him, “they didn’t come from the ether. They were likely just attracted to the light. Usually they don’t come this far inland unless it’s a new moon.”

Dean stares at him.

“I’m never going swimming again,” he says.

Thinking back to the feel of their slithering hands, their webbed fingers and sharp claws clutching, Dean shudders. He’s barely had time to think about how close he came to death when Castiel speaks again, and all other thought is put to an abrupt halt.

“I need to go back,” Castiel says, “alone. I have to find out how the rift is being held open if I’m going to have any chance at closing it.”

Dean shakes his head, unable even to formulate a response because it’s just insane. Suicidal. Castiel sighs.

“There was something out there, Dean,” he goes on, “tethered to those rocks. Whatever it is, it's clearly the—“

“ _No_ ,” Dean cuts in, “no way in hell.”

“I _have to_ ,” Castiel argues.

“If you go back out there, you'll get sucked into that thing.”

“That's not important,” Castiel says, waving a hand in the air and Dean glares at him. Holds up a finger.

“ _One_ , yes it is, you asshole,” he says, and raises another, “and _two_ , if you die before you can tell anyone what the damn thing is, then what's the point in going out there at all? You’ll just make the rift get bigger and then I’ll have to go out and fix it on my own.”

Defeated, Castiel slumps back against the cabin wall.

“So,” Dean says decisively, “I'll go.”

“How exactly is that any better than me going? You already got pulled in once, and--”

“I only got pulled in because I got thrown overboard,” Dean points out, “I'll be fine. If I leave the amulet here I wont be affected by it, and even if I am, I won't lose control and start causing a fucking hurricane,” he says pointedly, raising his eyebrows, “unlike some people.”

Reluctantly, Castiel agrees.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “and you'll need to take pictures so we can figure it out.”

"Okay," Dean says, pushing to his feet, "that's settled, then. In the meantime we need some food. It’s after midnight and I haven’t eaten since lunch."

“Where can we go? We can’t go home, Dean, the other hunter--” Castiel starts, and Dean shakes his head, waving away his worry before he’s finished speaking it. Reaching out, he hauls Castiel to his feet.

“I know a place,” he says, and hops down onto the dock before Castiel has a chance to respond.

 

* * *

Right at the end of the docks furthest from the shore, John Winchester’s old boathouse sits unused and dusty.

After pressing his face to the small front window to confirm that there’s no-one inside, Dean drags a pile of moldy old ropes over to the wall and clambers on top, reaching up to the ledge over the door.

John lived in the tiny room in front for a few months in late 1999, after selling their house when Dean moved out of it, and he only vacated when some fisherman reported him to the dock authority. The few times John has been back here since they kicked him out it’s been under the guise of fixing it up to sell. If he ever actually intends to, Dean hasn’t seen a sign of it.

He’s moved most of his furniture up into the one bedroom place he rents on the edge of town, but there’s still the fold out couch Dean grew up with--transferred here years ago and covered with a dusty sheet--a few shelves of junk and a functioning kitchenette with a stove.

Most importantly, the cupboard held a couple of packs of instant ramen when Dean busted in here a couple of months ago to look for paint brush, and unless John ate all of it on the single day Dean’s seen him down here since then, it should still be there.

“Why didn’t we hide out here to begin with?” Castiel asks, peering in through window Dean had looked through moments ago, and Dean glances back down at him.

“I didn’t know if we were being followed or not,” he says, chewing on his lip as he reaches up above the door, groping around for the key that he knows his dad keeps there, “figured if we were on a boat we’d be able to make a quick getaway if we needed to.”

“Oh,” Castiel says, “that’s clever.”

“Yeah, well. I’m prone to moments of genius,” Dean says, finally finding the key on the narrow ledge and holding it up with a triumphant, “ _ha!_ Let’s see what the old man’s hiding in the cupboard.”

In the end, ramen is the only option, and Dean waits for the pot of noodles to come to a boil on the tiny gas stove. Behind him, Castiel wanders around the small space, apparently distracting himself from the insistent pull of the light by running his hands over every rusted tool and abandoned book that lines the shelves of the far wall.

“I was thinking,” Dean says over his shoulder, stirring the noodles when a couple of stray bubbles find their way to the surface, “I could borrow Charlie’s camera to use tomorrow. She’s got a telephoto lens, so I won’t need to go so close to get a good shot.”

“That’s a good idea,” Castiel says, picking up a jar from the shelf and tilting it sideways to watch it’s contents float from one end to the other.

“I’ll walk up to her place after we’ve eaten,” he says, stirring the pot, and Castiel looks over at him, putting the jar down.

“Tonight?” Castiel asks, and he sounds almost disappointed.

“Less chance of being seen,” Dean says with a shrug, “and until we’ve got this thing sorted out, I’d rather not have to deal with the third hunter.”

“That makes sense,” he says, and walks over to lean on the counter beside him, “do you want me to come with you?”

He wants to say yes. Instead, he thinks of how pathetic that will sound, and settles on shrugging as nonchalantly as possible.

“Up to you,” Dean tells him, transferring the noodles into bowls and handing one over, but Castiel takes both, placing them down on the counter before turning back to Dean with a determined expression on his face.

“Do you _want_ me to?” he asks again.

“If you want.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, and when he doesn’t add anything for a long, tense moment, Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Cas,” he says in reply.

Pushing out a frustrated breath, Castiel levels him with a look that says _don’t fuck with me_. Dean gulps.

“You kissed me.”

“Oh,” Dean says, feeling his face grow hot and prickly, “that.”

“And I realize we’ve been a little… preoccupied since then. But--”

“Was it another terrible idea?” Dean asks, flat out, because the thought of drawing this conversation out makes him want to claw his face off.

“I’d say it was one of your moments of genius,” Castiel replies, and Dean’s heart pounds hard. Whether it’s in relief or excitement he can’t quite tell, but he smiles regardless.

“Two in one night?” he says, “I’m on a roll.”

When Castiel laughs, his eyes crinkle at the edges, and Dean wants to lean into him again, wants to catch his lips and feel the smile he’s so glad he’s finally seeing.

“I worried you were concussed,” Castiel confesses before he can, and Dean laughs aloud at the apologetic expression on his face.

“You thought I kissed you because of a head injury? And then you let me drive the boat?”

Castiel shrugs, clearly embarrassed.

“Given that my behavior toward you for the past six months was hardly conducive to making you like me, it was really the most logical conclusion.”

 _He has a point_ , Dean thinks, but then he remembers thinking about how much of an injustice it was that someone so attractive and with so many good qualities had to be such a colossal douchebag, and grins involuntarily at the realization that he kind of liked him even then. Castiel sees the grin, and his mouth twitches into a responding smile.

“What?” he asks.

“Remember that day your car broke down and I gave you a ride home?”

At the reminder, Castiel grimaces.

“I remember yelling at you and jumping out of a moving vehicle.”

“Right before that,” Dean says, smirking, “I was thinking how unfair it was that you were a dick.”

“Unfair?”

“Y’know,” Dean says with a shrug, “because I kinda wanted to kiss you.”

Raising his brow, Castiel tilts his head to the side.

“You wanted to kiss me _then_? I was horrible.”

“Yeah, that’s what was unfair about it.”

In the dim light, Castiel’s eyes seem to twinkle, and Dean glances down at his lips in time for him to speak again, voice low.

“Do you want to kiss me now?”

 _God, yes_ , Dean thinks.

“Eh,” Dean says, and Castiel frowns, catching him by the collar and pulling him forward to press their mouths together firmly. Dean smiles against him, bringing one hand up to Castiel’s cheek and curling his fingers there as he pulls him in by the waist with the other, savoring the pleased, breathy sound he makes when Dean bites lightly at his lower lip.

They stay that way for long, languid minutes, trading kiss after slow kiss, and it’s only when Dean’s stomach rumbles loudly that they pull away, laughing at the intrusion.

“I suppose we really should eat,” Castiel says, and he picks up the two bowls as Dean heads over to pull the sheet off the couch in a cloud of dust and stale air. When they sit down to eat, the space between them is barely visible.

The ramen is lukewarm and too salty, and the worn couch is uncomfortable, but as far as dinner dates go Dean thinks he could definitely do worse.

  
  


* * *

Charlie and Dorothy live on the block behind the supermarket in a house with the worlds most sensitive motion sensor light, and they’re not even halfway across the lawn when it flicks on.

Dean holds his hand up to shield his eyes. As if he hasn’t been blinded enough times tonight.

When he knocks on the door, hunched up and huddled beside Castiel for warmth, Dorothy appears at the living room window within seconds, staring out at them with wide eyes before calling out to Charlie, who yanks the door open immediately.

“What the _hell_?” she hisses, locking the door as soon as they’ve stepped inside and looking from Dean to Castiel in confusion, “where have you _been_? Aaron said you were--”

“We’re fine,” Dean tells her, batting her hands away and heading for the living room to hold his hands up in front of the wall heater, “just got kind of kidnapped.”

“You-- _what_?”

“Dean,” Castiel says, giving him a look that pretty clearly says _stop being a smartass_.

Glaring at him, Charlie crosses her arms firmly over her chest and addresses Castiel instead.

“What happened?”

“Well,” Castiel says, looking at Dean, “we got kidnapped. And then we... got away. But there’s… we need your help.”

“I’m calling the police,” Dorothy says, moving to pick up her phone, and freezes at Dean and Castiel’s loud and simultaneous “No!”

“No?” she asks, glancing between them and Charlie.

“No police.”

“What did you do?” Charlie asks, narrowing her eyes at Dean, which isn’t remotely fair.

“Why do you assume I did something?”

Charlie raises an eyebrow.

“Because Castiel is a sweetheart and you’re a troublemaker,” Dorothy says matter-of-factly, and Dean shoots her an indignant frown.

“Hey!”

“Thank you,” Castiel says.

“You’re welcome,” Dorothy tells him, “but let me make this clear. If either of you think we’re just going to skip over the whole _kidnapped_ thing and not call the cops without knowing what’s going on, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“What she said,” Charlie says, crossing her arms and standing beside her girlfriend with her chin held high. It’d almost be intimidating if she wasn’t in her jammies. “You bail on me at the last minute, tell Aaron you’re going to go stop a couple of thugs from hurting Castiel--who, by the way, I thought you _hated_ \--no offense, Cas--and you think I’m just going to pretend everything is normal? We’ve been _looking_ for you, Dean. Your _dad_ has been looking for you.”

That’s news, and Dean can’t conceal his shock. It’s strange how the idea of his dad actually caring about his whereabouts seems less believable than a rift in the fabric of reality, but he’s seen evidence of one today, and just can’t wrap his head around the possibility of the other.

“Seriously?” he asks.

Charlie nods brusquely.

“Turned up at like nine thirty, scared the shit out of us with how hard he knocked on the door. I guess Aaron called him.”

“Huh,” Dean says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“So,” Charlie goes on, apparently hitting her stride, “you’re going to tell me what’s going on. Or…”

“Or?”

“Else?” she says, and though it comes out as a question he knows she’s not going to budge. He glances over at Castiel, silently asking his permission to tell them the truth, and gets a subtle nod in return.

Looking back to his best friend, he lets out a breath.

“Alright,” he says, “but you’re gonna want to sit down.”

  
  



	14. Out On The Water

Considering that the thing Dean chooses to open with is “Cas is an airbender,” the conversation goes pretty well. But when he tells them his plan to head back out on his own, and finally gets around to asking if he can borrow Charlie’s camera, he’s met with a firm and resounding no.

“Char,” he says, “we can’t just ignore it.”

“You could die.”

“If I don’t do this, we all will. You’ve read the book. You know what’s going to crawl out of there if we don’t fix this.”

“He’ll be safe,” Castiel adds, “I’ll make sure of it.”

“You just told us that the last time you went out there Dean nearly got eaten by freaking _sea monsters_ ,” Charlie says.

“The sirens wouldn’t have eaten him,” Castiel offers, “just dragged him to the deep.”

“Not really the point,” Dorothy says, expression dark.

Spreading his hands, Dean looks at them frankly.

“Look, I’m going out there. With the camera or without,” he says, “but it’d be a lot easier, and a hell of a lot _safer_ if I could drop anchor further back. Any pictures I try to get on my crappy camera are going to be useless unless I’m right on top of it.”

With her head in her hands on the other side of the table, Charlie lets out a heavy breath. Dorothy rests a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Fine,” she sighs, “but if you get pulled into monster land, I’m going to kill you.”

“Deal.”

“And you’re both going to get a couple hours sleep before I drive you back. No way are you going out there right now.”

“You’re the boss,” Dean says, and Charlie huffs, pushing to her feet.

“Damn right I am. Come help me find some blankets.”

 

* * *

Just before dawn, Charlie drives them back to the dock.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” she says, holding on to the strap of the camera bag and refusing to let it go.

“I promise.”

“Cas,” she says, leaning over to look at him where he’s standing nervously beside the car, “if he does something stupid, call me.”

“I will,” he says, dragging his gaze away from where it’s been drawn back to the light.

“Why do you think I’m going to do something stupid?” Dean asks.

Charlie raises her brow at him, and apparently that’s all the explanation he’s going to get. As she drives away, Dean hitches the strap of the camera bag up on his shoulder and sticks his hands into the pockets of the too-small hoodie he borrowed from Dorothy. He looks at Castiel.

“Ready?” he asks.

Castiel looks grim. He nods. Side by side, they head back down to the Meridian.

“Stay in the boathouse,” Dean tells him, “I’ll bring the Meridian round to the wet slip when I come back, so you’ll have to open the back up for me.”

“Okay,” Castiel says, and then adds, “would you do me a favor and put a life vest on now? Just in case.”

It’s tempting to laugh it off, but when Dean sees how nervous he looks he just smiles and slips one on. Once he’s satisfied that Dean isn’t going to drown if he falls overboard, Castiel takes his face between his hands and kisses him.

“Don’t get too close,” he says quietly, leaning their foreheads together, “it’s stronger now. Even at this distance I can feel it affecting my control.”

“I won’t,” Dean says, ducking forward to kiss him again, “I promise.”

“I’ll keep the winds calm,” he says, “as much as I can. But watch out for the sirens.”

Looking at how strained he is, how his throat is corded with tension and his jaw tight and twitching, Dean frowns. Runs a hand down his arm to try and sooth him.

“If it’s getting too strong, maybe you should just go back to Charlie’s. I can call her back, she’ll--”

“I’ll manage,” Castiel tells him, with a shake of the head, “I’ll be inside. It’s easier when I can’t see it.”

With one last lingering kiss, his hand bunched in the front of Dean’s borrowed hoodie, Castiel hops back down onto the dock, making his way quickly back to wait in the boathouse. Dean starts up the engine and pushes slowly out past the harbor walls, glad when he’s free to get to full speed.

Unlike yesterday, the water is mostly calm.

There’s a breeze, icy and sharp, but it’s nowhere near the ferocity of last night’s wind. Squinting against the light spray of fog, Dean looks toward the light and is relieved that removing the pendant has rendered him immune to it’s draw. He aims to the left of the beam, planning to stop beside it where he’ll have a clear view to the rocks where the source of the spell is tethered, and tries to enjoy the slow build of sunrise.

When he finally drops the anchor, stopping his boat a dozen yards from it’s edge, the light is near blinding.

Despite the desire to touch the light having left him entirely, looking at it, being this close makes his skin itch and tingle. Squinting through the viewfinder of Charlie’s camera, he looks directly into the light and adjusts the camera's lens to the smallest possible aperture. He takes a few photos before turning his attention to the rocks.

He was right about it being bone, though there’s some white sticks there with them, the whole thing tied together with a thick rope. The top few inches of the bundle are black as charcoal; at the bottom, they are stained muddy red. Old blood. Dean’s stomach twists when he realizes.

Under the bone, though, painted on the rocks with something that reflects the light, is a symbol with swooping curves and sharp lines intersecting. It’s the key to the spell, he’s sure of it. That was how the hunters had been holding Castiel captive, after all. The moment the symbol was destroyed, the spell had been broken.

Break the sigil, break the spell.

 _Well_ , Dean thinks, lowering the camera and switching it off, _no use wasting time on a third trip when I’m here now._

Heading inside, Dean sticks Charlie’s camera down into the alcove under the couch, and wonders how he should go about destroying it.

“Should’ve kept that shotgun,” he mutters, looking around the cabin. He pulls up the couch on the opposite side and finds his spare ropes, tool box, the tin of left over black paint, and--perfect. Paint stripper.

“Bingo,” he says, and picks it up, glad he was too lazy to take it home after repainting the boat in August.

The only problem, he realizes when he gets back out onto the deck, is that he can’t get any closer in the Meridian without risking the underside getting wedged onto rocks, let alone getting stuck in the light. But the sea is still calm, and he chews his lip, glancing at the inflatable emergency raft strapped onto the side of the cabin.

It’s got a rope, he reasons with himself. It’ll be perfectly safe. If he’s tethered to the Meridian, it’ll be as though he never actually _left_ the Meridian.

His mind is made up quickly, and he hurries over, pulling the boat from it’s straps and yanking on the inflation cord. Once it’s full he secures a tethering rope to the railing at the Meridian’s side, tosses it overboard, and climbs down the ladder with the metal handle of the paint stripper can hooked over his wrist.

He’s paddled halfway when he sees flash of something dark in the corner of his eye, and realizes he’d forgotten about the sirens.

Now, the thought of them is vivid. The memory of their dark slick scales, fins slithering as they grasped at him with their clawed hands, their bright eyes glinting, spiny teeth smiling.

He remembers the smell of brine and fire and fetid breath so strong that his stomach turned, and it’s so vivid, so visceral, that he’s certain it’s real. Not a memory, but a sense. _They’re here_ , he thinks. _They’re here._

Panicked, he looks all around the raft, but if there were any there they’ve disappeared beneath the surface. Gripping the paddle with one hand, he breathes deeply until his pulse slows. He could turn back, but he’s already so close. Setting his jaw, he pushes the paddle through the water and keeps moving forward.

When the rope is taut, he’s only a couple of feet from the edge of the light, and the water it passes through is so still it almost looks like ice. The rocks are just within it’s boundaries, and as he kneels, leaning carefully over the edge to grab the bundle of bone and wood and break it over the stone before he douses the whole thing in paint stripper, he realizes that the symbol isn’t painted on after all. It’s been etched directly into the rock itself. Carved roughly by some hunter set on killing as many praenuntia as possible.

“Fuck,” he says, pulling his hand back. He’s barely sat back down when there’s a piercing screech in the air behind him, and he twists sharply to see Euripides flapping furiously about forty yards away. The breeze is beginning to get a little harsher, a little rougher, and the owl is struggling against it, clearly agitated by the light and unwilling to come any closer. It screeches again, louder, and Dean stares at it as it turns and flies back toward the shore, presumably to get away from the light and tell Castiel what he’s doing.

“Double fuck,” he says, and pulls on the rope, dragging himself back to the Meridian.

He can see Castiel at the back of John’s boathouse, standing with his arms folded tightly over his chest in the wide open door, and as he pulls into the wet slip he knows he’s about to get an earful. He kind of deserves it.

The moment he’s finished pulling the door closed after Dean, Castiel advances on him, furious. He’s got John’s old binoculars hanging around his neck. Dean grimaces as he hops down from the boat.

“You moron,” Castiel hisses before he can speak, “you complete _idiot_.”

“Sorry,” Dean says, sheepish, “I thought I could--”

“What about _don’t get too close_ was unclear to you?” Castiel cuts him off, and Dean counts himself lucky that Castiel doesn’t hate him anymore, because this level of ire is not something he wants to experience too often. “I was three seconds from stealing a boat and coming out there myself.”

“I'm sorry,” Dean tells him again, and Castiel glares even as he kisses him.

“Just don't pull that kind of shit again,” he says, pressing his eyes closed and leaning their foreheads together, “okay?”

“Scouts honor,” Dean says, and Castiel snorts out a laugh despite himself, quickly attempting to glare again.

“What did you find?”

* * *

Sitting on the couch in the front room, Dean flips through the photos on the camera display. His attempts to take a picture of the light itself are all horrendous failures, which isn’t all that surprising considering how bright it is, and the only thing visible in the multiple frames of blown-out white is a single black clawed hand. But the photos of the blood stained bones and the symbol etched into rock are all clear. Castiel studies them thoughtfully.

“Tell me you’ve got some idea of what this is,” Dean says, and Castiel looks over at him.

“I’m fairly certain I know exactly what it is,” he says, “but… well. This is going to be more difficult than I anticipated.”

“Why? What is it?”

“These bones and the sticks are singed at one end and dipped in blood at the other. So each element is present; the sticks represent earth, they were burned with fire, and their placement is in water. I would be willing to bet both blood and bone were taken from praenuntia--”

“Which would be air,” Dean guesses, and Castiel nods.

“The spell is a simple one used to interfere with a praenuntia's equilibrium. To make it more difficult to control our powers, and in theory, easier for a hunter to overpower.”

“So it’s not what’s holding the rift open?”

“No,” Castiel says, taking the camera and tilting the screen to look at it more closely, “it’s their insurance policy. On the off chance that a praenuntia were to get close to the light and want to turn back, this would make it impossible to reign in our influence on the elements, and we’d be overcome by the a storm of our own making.”

“You did,” Dean says, and Castiel frowns at him, “you reigned it in. You pulled me out and got us out of there.”

“That was… I suppose it helps to have something else to focus on.”

Putting the camera down, Castiel clears his throat.

“The symbol on the rocks,” he says, “that's what’s holding the rift open. But it’s just a receiver. The actual spell is somewhere else, and the sigil just focuses it on that point.”

“So we’re back to no leads, then,” Dean says, slumping against the couch, and Castiel sighs beside him.

Dean’s about to suggest they call Missouri again, to see if maybe her brother’s book collection would have anything in it that would help, or if she knew someone who’d know what to do, when the door knob rattles.

Beside him, Castiel tenses, and Dean springs to his feet. He walks as quiet as he can, peering out through the window, and relaxes immediately. He opens the door to see his dad’s signature frown.

“You moved my key,” John says.

“Yeah, sorry,” Dean says, stepping aside to let him in, “we, uh… kinda needed a place to get out of the storm.”

John’s eyes trail over to Castiel, then back to Dean. He doesn’t acknowledge him, and Dean’s had long enough a night that he’s relieved. The thought of Castiel being forced into uncomfortable small talk with John Winchester is enough to make him cringe.

“Bobby said he saw you heading out at dawn,” John says, making his way past Castiel, over to the shelf to find something in the clutter.

“Gotta catch those early fish,” Dean lies, and John nods without looking up, “the Meridian’s in the back, but I can move it if you need--”

“I keep my boat at the house now,” John cuts him off, taking a faded old shoe box from under a pile of musty books.

“Oh, okay. I’ll leave it then.”

With a grunt that could mean anything, John heads for the door.

“Make sure you put the key back when you leave,” he says.

“I will.”

The door thunks shut, and Dean’s shoulders sink. He can feel Castiel’s eyes on him, and he plasters on a smile as he turns around.

“So, that was my dad,” he says, and Castiel nods.

“He seemed busy.”

It’s the politest possible description of him, Dean thinks, but it’s true, so he nods.

“Yeah,” he says, looking toward the door, as he makes his way to the couch to sit back down, “he usually is.”

 

* * *

Charlie comes back down to the docks around midday, knocking on the door with a complicated rhythm that Dean thinks he’s supposed to recognize, and when he pulls it open she’s carrying a big bag of take out from The Galley, and her laptop.

“Hope you’re hungry,” she says, dumping the food on the counter, “Aaron made them put enough in here for like twelve people.”

While they eat, Charlie loads all the photos onto her computer, and Dean’s halfway through an aluminum tub of lasagne when she lets out an undignified squawk and points at the laptop screen.

“What the hell is that?”

Leaning forward to look, Dean sees the now too-familiar shape of the sirens hand, and shudders.

“My biggest fan,” he jokes, but his voice betrays how creeped out he still is.

“Dean ignored our request that he not do anything stupid,” Castiel tells her, “and put himself within grabbing distance of the sirens again.”

“You did _what?”_ she says, turning on him with fury in her eyes, and to avoid her rage he picks up a piece of garlic bread and points at Castiel.

“And _he_ didn’t even call you,” he says.

The look of offense Castiel gives him is priceless, and Dean grins, biting into the bread and crunching noisily. Charlie huffs out an annoyed breath. Still frowning, she looks back at the laptop and continues scrolling through the photos.

When she finally reaches the end, she nods to herself and sits back against the foot of the couch.

“Alright,” she says, “what’s our next step?”

“There’s no _our_ next anything, Char,” Dean tells her, “you’re going home and keeping out of harms way, and Cas and I are going to take care of it.”

“It’s cute how you actually believe that,” she tells him.

“I’m serious.”

“Rarely,” she says.

“Charlie--”

“Nope,” she says flatly, “now I’m not saying I’m going to go sailing out there to wrestle some scaly fish people next to a portal to another dimension, because unlike some people I’m not a reckless jackass. But I’m _helping_. Deal with it.”

The protest, whatever it was going to be, dies on Dean’s tongue. He sighs, rubbing his hands over his eyes. Beside him, Castiel nudges him with his elbow.

“We need to find a way to track the source of a remote spell,” he suggests, “and I’ll need a few things to destroy it once we do.”

“Okay,” Charlie says, cracking her knuckles, “so I’ll be research girl. Where do I start?”

There’s an organization, Castiel explains, called the Men of Letters. Scholars in the supernatural who collect and collate all manner of esoterica, from cursed objects to grimoires, magic compendiums to charms of good fortune. Unlike hunters, who tend more often than not to work alone and shoot before asking questions, they do not engage with the creatures they study.

“They may have some information,” he says, reaching out for her laptop, “if you can convince them to share it.”

He types out the phone number of the contact he has--someone named Anna who, while not a member of the organization, had met with one a few years ago to share information. Dean reads the name over his shoulder.

“She was here,” he says, and Castiel looks over at him with a raised brow, “you had dinner with her at The Galley.”

“Dean, have you been stalking me?” he asks, a smile slowly dragging the sides of his mouth upward, and Charlie snorts out a laugh. Dean kicks her leg where it’s stretched out on the floor.

“You’re forgetting I didn’t like you then,” he says.

“Hmm,” Castiel says, but from the glint in his eye Dean guesses his earlier confession that he’d wanted to kiss him months ago is at the forefront of his mind, “sure you didn’t.”

Twisting around to look up at the two of them, Charlie’s mouth falls open.

“ _No_ ,” she says, eyes darting between them, “seriously?”

Dean just shrugs. He knows he looks smug and he doesn’t even care.

“When did you even have time to--” Charlie shakes her head, incredulous.

“I’m irresistible,” Dean says, and claps his hands on his knees as he stands up, “c’mon, we’ve got crap to do.”

Charlie leaves first, heading home to make phone calls and attempt to track down a legitimate source of information on the internet, and once she’s out of sight Dean turns to Castiel.

“So,” he says, “what do we need?”

  



	15. Eye of the Storm

On the street behind the supermarket, the Impala is still sitting right where he left it, and Dean moves quickly. He unlocks the door while looking over his shoulder for any sign of the third hunter, and slips inside. The engine rumbles to life, and the sound of it purring is enough to make his jittery nerves a little calmer. He pets the steering wheel, feels like a freak for doing it, and pulls out of the parking space.

He’s got a short list of items to find, and while Castiel waits--annoyed about being sidelined but understanding it’s probably safest--he heads up toward their street.

He doesn’t park on Redstart Rise.

Instead, he slips his car into the next street down, pulling into the driveway of a half-built house. Unless the construction crew decides to come in to work on the weekend, he figures he won’t be in anyone's way.

Castiel’s keys jingle in his pocket, and when he gets to the house he sees Euripides sitting on the lowest branch of the spindly jackpine in the yard. He frowns up at him.

“Thanks for ratting on me earlier,” he says, and gets a low hoot in response.

He feels like a burglar, sneaking across the yard and in through the garage door, but doesn't want to be seen in case the third hunter turns up. He’s felt as though he were being watched since the moment he left the boathouse, and it doesn’t stop, the prickling at the back of his neck that’s almost as bad as what he’d felt when he was still wearing the pendant, drawn to the light.

Everything he’d been sent for is right where Castiel said it would be, and he heads into the house to find a bag to carry it in.

Outside, Euripides hoots, and he snags a canvas grocery bag and hurries to the garage, scooping everything up and shoving it inside before slipping out through the back. When he reaches the front of the house, he sees a tall man at the front door, leaning from the step to press his face to the window, and jerks quickly back out of sight around the corner with his pulse racing.

 _Thanks, Euripides_ , he thinks, and is glad that he managed to talk Castiel into staying at the docks.

He sneaks another quick glance around the corner to get a better look at the guy. He has shoulders wide enough to be an olympic swimmer, and Dean doubts he’d be able to fight him off if it came to it. So he waits. With his back to the wall, Dean listens for movement.

Footsteps come, eventually, but they’re leading away, back toward the street, and until he hears the sound of a car door closing he doesn’t move. Just holds his breath and waits.

Euripides swoops down in front of him, flying out toward the road, and Dean lets his head fall back against the siding as he sucks in a breath. Just as he starts to push away from the wall, stepping out to head for his car, he hears wing beats and tenses, thinking the owl has returned to warn him of another threat. But it’s just a crow, flapping away in the same direction.

“Keep it together,” he mutters to himself, and hefts the bag over his shoulder, walking briskly down the hill to his car.

When he reaches it, his hands are shaking, and the whole drive back down toward the docks is tense. He parks out of sight, up behind the grocery store, and keeps his head down. He can't stop thinking about the hunter. Despite trying not to, the thought that he's somehow found Castiel won't get out of his head.

It’s mid afternoon when he gets back to the boathouse, and when Castiel opens the door Dean catches him in a hug, pressing his face to his neck and breathing deeply.

“The other hunter was there,” he says before Castiel can ask, “he didn’t see me, but…”

Pulling him inside, Castiel closes the door and smooths his palm down over Dean’s back.

“If Euripides hadn’t turned up he would have seen me.”

“I wondered where he went,” Castiel says, pulling away slightly to look Dean in the eye, “are you okay?”

“Just kinda freaked out,” Dean admits, “I’ll be fine.”

Castiel smiles, shaking his head as he leads Dean back to the couch.

“You nearly got dragged to the bottom of the ocean by sirens yesterday,” he says, “and this is the most scared I’ve seen you.”

“Yeah, well… he’s _tracking_ you, Cas.”

“He won’t find me.”

“Damn right,” Dean says, heaving out a breath and holding up the bag of supplies, “we’re gonna kick his skeevy ass.”

 

* * *

The sun has just begun to set when Charlie comes back, this time with Dorothy in tow.

“Not that I expected much more from a secret society, but those Men of Letters are a paranoid bunch,” she says as they walk inside, and Dorothy heads toward the kitchenette to empty a new bag of take out from The Galley. Aaron must be drumming up quite a bill.

“So you spoke with them?”

“I did. Anna was really nice, but the guy she put me in contact with was a cranky old pain in the ass. Argued with me for twenty minutes before putting me on the phone with a crankier, older pain in the ass, and he said they’d need to do a background check on me before they’d be willing to share any of their--and I quote-- _profound and extensive knowledge_. Apparently they already knew about the rift, too.”

"They know about it?" Dean asks, "then why aren't they--"

"I asked them that," Charlie says, "apparently they don't get involved. They just collect information."

"There's a reason most hunters and supernatural creatures dislike them," Castiel says.

Slumping down on the couch, Charlie drops her oversized bag on the ground and looks up at them.

"Yeah, I can't say I blame you," she says, leaning down to rummage through her bag, "they said they’d get back to me tomorrow. I got you guys something.”

Holding out a couple of cell phones, she shakes them in the air until Dean and Castiel take them.

“Since yours got destroyed we figured you could use our old ones. Got them reconnected for you, but you’ll need to top them up pretty soon.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, holding the first-generation smartphone in his hand like it’s something precious, and Charlie beams at him.

“No problem,” she says.

With no way to move forward, and the day basically over, there’s not much to do but eat and pass the time. There’s a deck of cards under the sink in the kitchenette, and once the food is gone they play a few rounds of bullshit before Charlie starts yawning and the two women decide it’s time to head home.

“I’ll call you as soon as they get in touch,” she says on their way out, pausing to hug each of them sleepily.

“Thanks, Char,” Dean says, and she pets his cheek.

“Anytime,” she says, and with a wave they’re gone.

* * *

  


While there was conversation and distraction, Castiel had been able to ignore the pull of the light. But now, from the corner of his eye, Dean can see how much he’s trying not to fidget. How tense his hands are on his knees; how stiffly he’s sitting with his eyes pressed closed.

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

Castiel doesn’t reply out loud, but he swallows audibly, his forehead creasing with his discomfort. Dean reaches out and rests his hand over Castiel’s where he’s grasping his own knee with a white knuckled grip. He squeezes once, gently, and pulls until Castiel lets go, letting him flip his hand around and weave their fingers together.

“Maybe you should split,” Dean says, though it’s the last thing he wants to suggest, especially when this thing between them is so new. Still, he knows it’s probably the best option. Castiel opens his eyes to look at him.

“I'm not going to run away,” he says, meeting Dean’s eyes.

“I'm not talking about running,” Dean says, “I'm talking about protecting yourself.”

“No,” Castiel shakes his head, “If someone doesn't fix it, it's only going to get worse. Other people could die, Dean,” he says, then amends, “they _will_ die.”

“Well you torturing yourself in the mean time isn't going to help anyone,” Dean points out, “maybe we need to get further from the water.”

“I'm fine,” Castiel says firmly, “honestly. Even just talking is distraction enough to put it to the back of my mind.”

“Really?” Dean asks, and Castiel smiles, a small, quiet smile. He nods.

“Really.”

“Good,” Dean smiles back, then chews his lip for a moment, thoughtful, “I wonder...”

“Hmm?”

“Just, if talking is distracting, how about if I—” Dean leans over and kisses him, running his thumb down over his cheek before pulling slightly away to look him in the eye, “do that?”

“It helps,” he breathes, leaning back in for more, “it definitely helps.”

When they kiss again, Dean lets his tongue dart out to tease against the seam of his lips, and Castiel opens to him, pulling him close.

His mouth is sweet. With each sweep of tongue, each sigh that tumbles, stutters, spills between them, Dean craves more. More contact, more closeness, more Castiel.

The hands that trail over his sides are at once desperate and intoxicating, and when they slip up beneath his layers to press against his skin he can’t help but gasp with the thrill of it. Of Castiel’s hands on him.

Kneeling, he turns, pushing lightly at Castiel’s chest until he falls back onto the cushions with a soft exhalation, and crawls over him, straddling one thigh and forcing himself not to give in to the desire for friction. Not yet. He wants to make this last. Take it slow.

Castiel is watching him, blue eyes hooded and lips parted as he breathes heavily, and when his tongue flicks out to wet his lower lip, Dean’s eyes follow the motion. He reaches down, spreading his palm over Castiel’s stomach, and drags it slowly up, lighter and lighter as he goes, until he’s trailing featherlight fingers over his throat, his cheek, his lips.

“Kiss me again,” Castiel says, tugging on Dean’s arm, and he already sounds wrecked, so Dean leans back down and pauses, just shy of touching. He feels Castiel’s breath hitch, feels him straining upward to meet his lips, and pulls slightly away, never quite letting the kiss happen.

With a soft noise of protest, Castiel catches hold of Dean’s collar and pulls him back down, turning them slightly so Dean’s back is pressed along the back of the couch, their legs wound together.

Finally, finally, when he feels the hot swell of Castiel’s erection growing against his own, pressing through their jeans, he rolls his hips, rocking against him in a slow rhythm. Castiel lets out a fractured moan, and almost simultaneously there's the sound of thunder loud overhead. Dean leans slightly away to look at him with a smirk.

“Is that you losing control?” he asks, and Castiel rolls his eyes.

“Please,” Castiel laughs, pulling Dean back in, slipping his hand along Dean’s side when he kisses him back, “don't flatter yourself.”

“Wait,” Dean’s breath catches when his fingers trail over a ticklish spot, and Castiel smiles into the kiss before doing it again, “we should--”

“Hmm?”

“This folds out,” Dean says, pressing his lips to Castiel’s neck, “and if we’re going to...”

Looking down at him, Castiel raises one eyebrow.

“If we’re going to what?” he asks slyly, trying and failing to hide his smirk, and rather than answer the question Dean just lets his knuckles graze over the swell of Castiel’s cock through his jeans. His eyes roll back in his head. Dean grins.

“Yes,” Castiel says, arching up as Dean repeats the motion, “the couch. Fold out… a good.”

With some effort, they disentangle their limbs and stand, and after a couple of incredibly frustrating minutes the couch has been wrestled into submission. Dean nudges it with his knee and it squeaks, but it holds together.

“There,” he says, turning back to Castiel, “it’s--”

He’s cut off when Castiel grabs him by the waist, pulling him close, and any words he was planning to say are lost against Castiel’s lips, leaving nothing but unsteady breath. Hands snake up under his shirt, tugging it, and Dean takes the hint, pulling every layer up over his head and flinging them across the room. In the dim light, Castiel appraises him hungrily.

“Your turn,” Dean says, reaching out to slip his fingers over Castiel’s stomach, lifting the t-shirt to expose tan skin, and Castiel wastes no time in following.

He’s had barely a second to appreciate the sight of Castiel without his shirt on when cool hands are at his waistband, unbuttoning, unzipping, pulling down then pushing him back onto the fold out to yank them off completely, and then Castiel is straddling his bare thighs, still in his jeans. His hands are spread, palms flat against Dean's chest, and he leans down, suckling at the skin of his stomach hard enough to leave it red and stinging. Panting, Dean arches up and threads his fingers through Castiel's hair, and when Castiel moves up his body to bite and suck at his neck he slides them down to dip into his waistband.

“Not fair,” he says, and Castiel looks up at him from where he's still mouthing his neck, “take these off. Want to feel you.”

Castiel kisses him full on the mouth before standing, and he holds Dean’s gaze as he pops the button free. He’s moving far too slow, and Dean is in agony.

He can feel himself getting harder just from the way Castiel is looking at him, like he's planning to take him apart, to shatter him and put him back together. Dean has no doubt that he could if he tried. His boxers are blue, and then they’re gone, and Dean takes in the view of his flushed cock, hanging heavy between his thighs. Feels his own arousal grow, pulse within him at the sight.

Dragging his lower lip between his teeth, Castiel just looks at him as he takes his cock into his hand, pumping slow.

"You’re amazing," Castiel murmurs, tilting his head to look down at him, “you have no idea what you do to me.”

Leaning up on his elbows to watch the slick pink head slip through Castiel's loose fist, Dean licks his lips.

“I’ve got some idea,” he says, and shuffles to sit at the edge of the bed, reaches out to press his thumbs into the dip of Castiel's pelvis, stroking soft over his skin as he watches the slow pump of his hand. “God, I wish we’d been doing this for months.”

Pulling Castiel forward to stand between the vee of his legs, Dean leans in to tongue at his navel, feeling the wet slide of his cock against his chest as he kisses along his stomach. He skims his fingertips down, then up his thigh until he meets Castiel's hand and joins it in its rhythm, relishing the warmth of Castiel's cock as it grows beneath their intertwined fingers until Castiel moans and pushes his hand away, his knees too weak to stand.

The mattress groans when he falls onto it. Dean wastes no time in taking him back into his hand, pumping slow as he presses his lips to his chest, feeling the way his pulse races.

“What do you want?” he asks, and licks into the dip of Castiel’s collarbone, sucking at the salt of his skin so that instead of giving an answer Castiel just stutters out another breath, clutching Dean’s arm and tilting his head back to give him better access, “tell me, Cas.”

He runs his hand down, skimming over Castiel’s chest and letting his thumb catch against his nipple, flicking it teasingly before continuing down, down to circle his navel, and he follows the path he’s given himself, pressing his lips to fevered skin.

“Tell me,” he says again, kissing his stomach and looking up to see his blue eyes hooded, his lips kiss-bruised and parted, “wanna make you feel good.”

“You’re already-- _ahh_ \--doing that,” Castiel says, his breath catching as Dean’s thumb circles the head of his cock, spreading precome to smooth his way.

“Wanna make you come,” Dean clarifies, and bites lightly on his hip before soothing the skin with his tongue.

“Fuck,” Castiel moans, and the sound of that word in _that_ voice makes Dean’s stomach flip, “ _plea--_.”

He doesn’t get the rest of the word out, just chokes on his breath as Dean presses his tongue flat against the base of his cock, dragging it it up to slick his length before sinking his mouth down as far as he can, stretching his lips and humming around him as he moves. He keeps a staccato rhythm with his mouth, kneading Castiel's thighs and pressing him down against the thin mattress.

Soon, Castiel's hands find their way to his head, short nails slipping against his nape, fingers tugging his hair with urgency, and Dean pulls back a little to suck and tease at the slit until he feels Castiel's whole body tense, come pulsing against his tongue. He licks over the head, catching the bittersweet taste, and doesn't stop until Castiel is quivering, pulling weakly at his arms.

It’s raining, now, huge drops drumming against the tinny boathouse roof, and though it’s cold outside the room is warm with the heat of them. There’s a sheen of sweat on Castiel’s throat, and it reflects each flash of lightning, making him glow in ethereal blue as Dean crawls over him.

The kiss is slow, and deep, and Castiel’s tongue sweeps into his mouth lazy and sated. His movements are lethargic but eager, and Dean can’t help but feel a little pride at how spent he is.

His hands roam, gripping Dean’s ass, squeezing and pressing at his thighs, dragging forward to finally, finally wrap around his swollen cock, rolling them until he’s on top, kissing Dean with everything he has.

“Want you,” Castiel says when they break away for air, and Dean moans when he punctuates it with another squeeze of his fist around his cock, “do you have--”

“In my wallet,” he manages, “jeans.”

For a brief moment, Castiel disappears, and when he comes back Dean hears the crinkle of foil hitting the mattress beside him.

Outside, lightning flashes bright, thunder rolling at almost the same moment, and Dean stares up at Castiel where he’s leaning over him, illuminated in each flash. Beautiful. Breathtaking.

He drags him down, and their lips collide with renewed fervor as he gropes around for the packet of lube. He warms it in his hand, coating his fingers in the slick before dragging them down over the cleft of Castiel’s ass, finding that spot and rubbing slow circles before pressing in to the first knuckle. Above him, he can see the pulse thrumming at Castiel’s throat, the way his mouth slackens with every push.

Slowly, Dean works him open, presses a second finger in beside the first, twisting on each withdrawal until Castiel bucks back against his hand, his cock twitching back to attention against Dean’s leg.

“More,” he begs, “Dean, more.”

The pressure of Castiel squeezing around his fingers is tight, but Dean gives him what he wants, pulling all the way out before adding a third, and he strokes him inside, feels around until he catches on his prostate and Castiel whimpers, his whole body tensing.

Dean can feel his heartbeat in his cock, pulsing and desperate, and as he shifts his fingers to drag over that spot again he speaks, his voice a rough murmur.

“Can I--”

“Yeah,” Castiel cuts him off, “yes. Now.”

Pulling his fingers free, Dean tears the condom open and rolls it on swiftly, and he’s about to roll them over when Castiel presses his hands to his shoulders to keep him on his back.

“Like this,” he says, leaning down to kiss him, “please.”

Kneeling over him, he takes Dean in his hand and strokes upward, once, twice, before sinking down, enveloping Dean, his body stretching and pulling him in. Dean catches hold of his hips as the pressure overtakes him, but Castiel slows the movement, drawing it out until he’s is finally seated, their bodies flush.

When he starts to move, Castiel keeps the pace slow, slow, and it’s agonizing, each breath coming out on a whimper. But he picks up, little by little, and soon enough he’s practically bouncing, rising and falling back onto Dean relentlessly, pressure building, building until Dean can’t think, can’t feel beyond himself buried to the hilt inside Castiel, the throbbing ache of his release almost overwhelming when it comes as the storm outside reaches a head.

The water swells, and as it crashes and breaks against the dock Dean does too, spilling into Castiel with a moan, and had the waves broken through the windows to fill the boathouse he thinks he'd have happily drowned, pressed deep into Castiel with his mouth resting slack on his throat.

  



	16. Hunter

It’s still dark when Dean wakes to the sound of pouring rain and boats knocking against the dock.

The air is cooler than when they’d fallen asleep, though he’s warm where Castiel’s arm is draped over his stomach, and when he looks down to see the blissed out smile on Castiel’s face he can’t help but grin back.

“You been watching me sleep?” he asks, and Castiel tries to stop smiling.

“Maybe a little?”

Gently, he traces his fingertips along Castiel’s arm.

“See anything you li--”

Outside, the boats slam against the dock again, harder and Dean pushes up onto his elbows to look toward the window.

“Storm’s getting worse,” he says, and Castiel frowns.

“It shouldn’t be,” he says.

That’s enough to set off alarm bells, and Dean rolls to the side, pushing out from under the scratchy blanket to go to the window. Outside, standing in the pouring rain and staring out toward the water, is a man. Tall, and broad, and soaked to the bone, illuminated by the yellow security light of the docks.

Dean recognizes him immediately as the hunter he’d seen outside Castiel’s house, and his neck prickles.

“We've got company,” Dean says.

Coming to stand beside him at the window, his hand resting warm on Dean’s bare hip, Castiel peers outside.

  

  
“He’s praenuntia,” he says immediately, and Dean’s brows raise. He shakes his head.

“That’s the guy who was at your house,” Dean tells him, “the third hunter.”

“He’s staring at the light,” Castiel points out, “and now that I’m looking for it, I can feel his influence on the storm. Perhaps he saw Euripides and followed him to ask for my help.”

Moving away from the window, Castiel stoops to pick up his jeans from the floor and yanks them on. Dean looks at him as he buttons the fly.

“You’re going out there?” he asks.

“He might try to go to the light,” Castiel says, turning in place to find the Styx t-shirt, “I won’t let another praenuntia die if I can stop it.”

“Okay,” Dean says as he watches him pull on the shirt, further messing his already ruffled hair, “then I’ll come with you.”

 

* * *

Outside, the rain is just as heavy as ever, and Dean pulls his hood up over his head as they hurry across the wet planks. The man is near the end of the dock, now, and when they approach he startles at the sound of their footsteps, turning. His cheeks are flushed red from the cold, and the moment he lays eyes on Castiel his tense shoulders lower a little, though not completely.

“What is it?” he asks, his voice loud and deep over the sound of the rain as he tilts his head toward the water to indicate the light.

“A rift,” Castiel calls back, slowing so as not to appear threatening, “into the ether. It’s already claimed at least one praenuntia that I know of. I don’t recommend going near it.”

Glancing back out toward the light, the guy comes forward, walking slowly toward them. When he’s finally a few feet away he wipes the water from his face, pushing his shaggy hair out of his eyes. He looks up to the sky with a grimace.

“Sorry about this,” he says, gesturing to the rain, “usually I’ve got better control.”

“It’s because of the ether,” Castiel reassures him.

“Oh.”

“What’s your name?” Castiel asks, but when the guy starts to reply he stumbles a little, changes the shape of his mouth at the last second.

“Keith,” he says, and immediately Dean knows it’s a lie. He sticks out his hand before Castiel has a chance.

“Michael,” he introduces himself, and sees Castiel frown in his periphery. He’s thankful when he follows his lead, smoothly introducing himself as Jimmy without a pause.

Looking over his shoulder to where the light burns just as bright as ever, Keith chews on the inside of his cheek, his brow wrinkled.

“How is it--”

“It’s a spell,” Castiel tells him, “created by a hunter to kill praenuntia. To draw us in and feed us to the ether.” He glances sideways at Dean. “Michael and I are trying to stop it.”

“How can I help?” Keith asks.

Dean wants to tell him to leave town, and he’s glad when Castiel does just that. But Keith is stubborn. He shakes his head.

“I’m here now,” he says, “and you guys could probably use another set of hands.”

“Well what do you say we get out of this rain?” Dean suggests, and nods back toward the boathouse, “it’s not much, but it’s dry.”

After a moments consideration, Keith nods.

“Just let me lock up my car.”

He passes them in a half jog, heading up to the parking lot where Dean can see the headlights of his car still running. Dean catches hold of Castiel’s arm, pulling him back toward the boathouse.

“He lied about his name,” Dean whispers as soon as they’re inside, “and did you see the tattoo on his wrist? It’s the same symbol those hunters had.”

“That’s just a protection ward,” Castiel says, “and even if he is a hunter I doubt he’s got anything to do with what’s happening. He’s still praenuntia.”

“So was the guy who tricked my mom,” Dean says, and Castiel nods.

“It is worrying that he lied,” he agrees reluctantly, “what can we do, though? He’s already set on staying. If we confront him--”

“No, I say we play along,” Dean says, “keep our guard up. See what he’s up to.”

Castiel nods, swallowing nervously, and Dean tracks the motion. He wishes they could return to bed, and when he meets Castiel’s eyes again he’s greeted with a smirk.

Apparently his thoughts are written all over his face.

“Me too,” Castiel says quietly, and kisses him, hot and teasing as if to prove it, letting their hips press together. They only pull apart when there’s a knock at the door, and Dean sighs heavily.

Castiel laughs under his breath and pets Dean on the cheek.

“When this is all over,” he says, backing away to open the door, “we’re both taking a week off.”

 

* * *

It’s not long before the sun comes up, and when it does Keith suggests they head up to main street to get some breakfast. Dean shakes his head.

“We’re kinda laying low,” Dean tells him, “you think we’d be sleeping in this dump if we had another choice?”

“I’ll go get something, then,” he offers, “any requests?”

Within a few minutes, he’s headed outside with the promise of bagels and coffee, and Castiel watches him through the window. He turns to Dean.

“Maybe you should go with him,” he says.

“Why?”

“Keep an eye on him,” he says, and shrugs, “if he’s really up to something, he won’t be able to do it when you’re there. Besides, the third hunter never saw you. If he’s out there he’s only looking for me.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Castiel says, cupping his cheek and leaning in to kiss him, soft.

The door groans on it’s hinges when he opens it, and Keith hears him from the stairs, looking back as Dean hurries to catch up with him.

“Ca--uh, Jimmy’s the one they’ve seen,” he explains, “thought I’d keep you company.”

“Oh,” Keith says with an awkward nod, and Dean’s grateful he didn’t seem to notice the slip, “thanks.”

They head up to Pam’s, and arrive a couple of minutes before opening time, waiting out on the street in the fog. They don’t talk much. Somehow, Dean’s scared that anything the guy says is going to be another lie, and he doesn’t want to be on his own when the truth comes out. If this guy is the third hunter, or if he’s working with him, Dean’s not going to be able to handle it on his own.

Twenty minutes, three coffees, and a bag of bagels later they head back down toward the boathouse. There’s a rental car parked in the lot beside Keith’s Dodge Challenger, though it’s way too early for tourists, and Dean bristles at the sight of it. But he can see the boathouse from here, and the door is still firmly shut. Castiel is fine, he assures himself, and keeps walking.

It’s not until they’re down the stairs that Dean sees the woman on the dock, staring out over the water toward the distant light with her hand over her eyes, but as soon as he does, he freezes. Even at a distance, even after seventeen years, Dean knows the shape of those shoulders, the wave of that blonde hair as it shifts in the breeze.

His breath catches in his throat.

“Mom?” he says, far too quiet for her to hear, but just ahead of him Keith stops walking, lowering the tray of coffees in his hand, and looks from the woman who couldn’t be Mary but somehow _is_ , and then back at Dean with wide brown eyes that he can’t believe he didn’t recognize before.

“Dean?” Sam says, and Dean feels his world crumble.

  


  



	17. Lost and Found

On the last day Dean saw his brother, he’d been about four and half feet tall. Now, he’s the size of a linebacker, and Dean can’t find his voice. In his defense, Sam can’t seem to, either.

They’re standing stock still on the slippery dock, and neither of them has moved an inch when Mary notices them.

“Sam!” she calls out, hurrying down the dock toward them, breathless and relieved, “thank God. I thought you’d gone out there.”

“Mom,” he says, not taking his eyes off Dean.

“Who’s thi--”

Coming to a stop, Mary glances from Sam to Dean, and it’s only a couple of seconds before her eyes widen and her hand raises to cover her mouth.

“Dean?”

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Dean nods, his eyes prickling, and is engulfed by his mother’s arms. She smells just the same as she used to, like Red Door and warmth, and it’s too much to process.

Mary doesn’t say anything else for a long moment, just holds on to Dean tightly, and Dean can’t quite decide what to do. He wants to hug her back. He wants to scream at her for leaving him all those years ago, for taking his brother away without a word.

But when she finally lets him go, pulling away and wiping tears from her cheeks, she looks at him with such remorse he forgets to be angry.

“Where have you been?” he asks, and Mary lets out a dry sob.

“I’m so sorry,” she tells him, reaching up to touch his face, “I’m so, so sorry.”

  
  


* * *

Castiel opens the door to the boathouse as they approach, concern etched into his features, and he looks from Dean to the others with a frown.

“Cas,” Dean says, clearing his throat, “this is… this is my mom. Mary.”

“Your--” accepting Mary’s outstretched hand, he looks at Dean with wide eyes.

“And my brother, Sam.”

Gaping, Castiel steps aside to let them in.

“How?”

“That’s a long story,” Mary says, and looks at Sam, “and I don’t even know the end. How did you find him?”

“I didn’t,” Sam says, still in shock, “I… the light. I overheard your call from Josie Sands.”

He shifts guiltily, looking for all the world like the kid Dean remembers, even if he is six-foot-four.

“I’d been feeling the pull anyway,” he admits, “so I figured I’d come check it out. I would have told you, but--”

“You knew I’d stop you.”

He nods, and looks at Dean.

“I had no idea you were here.”

“Why’d you lie about your name?” Dean asks, and Sam looks even guiltier.

“In case you guys had links to the Men of Letters. I didn’t want Mom tracking me down so fast. Guess she’s better than I gave her credit for.”

Mary looks thoroughly unimpressed for about two seconds, but then her gaze travels back to Dean and she looks like she might start crying again. Reaching out to squeeze his hand, she takes a deep breath.

“Alright,” she says, “I guess I’ll start from the beginning.”

She tells them about that day, recounts every horrible moment after Dean and Sam ran and she fought off the hunters who had come to take her youngest son, and then the nightmare that was convincing her husband that it was all real. That what she’d read in the books given to her by Missouri was truth, and that she’d been given a gift she didn’t know she’d asked for when she’d been saved that day in Corpus Christi. She tells them about the safe haven that was offered to Sam by a contact of Missouri’s at the Men of Letters. She tells them about how John refused to go with them, and only let her take Sam to the Colorado refuge on the condition that Dean would stay with him, to live a normal life, and how for that first year while Sam was being trained in the art of controlling his powers in a compound on Mount Antero, she wrote to them weekly, and received no reply.

She tells him about the day she and Sam came home to find that John and Dean had left Lawrence.

“Did he know you were coming back?”

“Yes,” she says, “but Dean, please don’t blame him. He was scared, he--”

“We were all scared,” Dean says, shaking his head, “you know, all these years, I thought you’d abandoned me. Turns out it was him.”

“I’m sorry,” she tells him again, and Dean nods. “Is… does he live in town?”

“Up on Lincoln,” Dean says.

“I’d like to see him,” Mary says, “if that’s okay.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, pushing to his feet, “I wouldn’t mind having a few words with him myself.”

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Sam chooses to wait at the boathouse with Castiel, and Dean spends a few surreal minutes in the passenger seat of the rental car while his mom drives him toward Lincoln Street.

He doesn’t know what to say to her. He doesn’t know her anymore. She doesn’t know him. The silence is unbearable.

“Cas and I are kind of dating?” he blurts out, and she looks over at him. For a moment he’s worried, but then she smiles.

“Really? He seems sweet.”

Dean lets out the breath he was holding.

“Yeah. It’s, um, new. But,” he drums his fingers on his knee and clears his throat, “yeah. This house on the left.”

John’s front yard is a mess of weeds and half melted snow, and there’s an unread newspaper laying soggy on the front step. Dean knocks on the peeling paint of his front door and when there's no response, he unlocks the door with his spare key.

“He might be in the back,” he says.

Inside, the house reeks of burnt hair, of something rich and sweet, and Dean covers his mouth to keep from gagging.

“What the hell?” he mutters against his sleeve, eyes watering as he looks back over his shoulder at Mary, and she shakes her head as she follows him inside.

They part in the hallway, Dean heading for the living room and kitchen, Mary checking the bedroom. Carefully pushing open each door.

As soon as Dean walks into the kitchen he freezes. The table is piled with herbs and metal bowls filled with pungent sludge, and at the center of the mess is the old shoebox from the boathouse. When he opens it he sees few fragments of splintered bone.

“Dean!” Mary calls, and he stumbles backward, turning to run through the house and coming to an abrupt halt when he finds her in the doorway to the spare room.

There’s no furniture to speak of, and the carpet has been pulled back to make way for a symbol, carved roughly into the floor and painted over with the same glowing substance from the rocks.

Dean swallows. Tries not to believe what he’s seeing, but it’s there.

“Dean, how-- what is he--” Mary can’t seem to finish her thoughts, and Dean pulls his cell out of his pocket with shaking hands to snap a photo. He sends it to Castiel.

**D: Found the source. What do I need to do?**

**C: Where are you?**

Dean stares at the message and contemplates his response. _Dad's house_ is his instinctive reply, but the words feel wrong in light of what he's looking at. He deletes his answer and types it again.

**D: 12 Lincoln.**

**C: We'll be there.**

* * *

They can hear Sam’s car from a mile off, tearing up the hill toward them, and Dean goes to the door as soon as he hears it stop outside. Castiel is carrying the bag of supplies for the counter spell, and he hurries across the front yard with Sam at his heels, nearly tripping on the unkept walkway leading up to the door.

“Through here,” Dean says, leading the way through the house to the room where Mary is still standing, staring at the sigil carved into the floor.

“Dad did this,” Sam says, shaking his head, “he basically disowned me for--”

He cuts himself off, jaw tight, and runs a hand back through his too-long hair before turning and stalking back through the house. It’s only a moment before Mary follows, and Dean is left in the room that stinks of dark magic with Castiel beside him.

“I didn’t know,” Dean tells him quietly, “I swear, I had no idea.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Castiel says, putting the bag down and wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist, “you said you barely spoke.”

“How are we going to stop him? What if he tries to do it again?”

“We’ll fix this,” Castiel says firmly, “lets just worry about fixing this first, and we can find him later. Maybe… maybe with Sam here, he’ll see reason. Maybe he’ll be willing to listen.”

Dean nods, but he knows how pigheaded his dad can be. Then again, it seems like he doesn’t know him at all.

The counter spell seems too simple, Dean thinks as he watches Castiel unscrew the lid from a jar of seeds, more like preparing a casserole than stopping a portal from being held open. He tells Castiel as much and gets a laugh in response.

“I can see that,” he says, “magic is like science, and science is often like cooking. It follows.”

“So run this by me again,” Dean says, picking up the engraved wooden mortar he’d taken from one of the many boxes in Castiel’s garage, “you’re going to…?”

“The seeds,” Castiel says, taking the mortar from Dean and crouching down to pour a few seeds from the jar along with the pale, greenish liquid they’re swimming in, “are from a herb called raskovnik, which is used in many spells that require uncovering that which is hidden. I often use it to find my reading glasses.”

Dean stares down at him.

“You’re joking, right?”

Castiel lifts his shoulder in a shrug.

“It’s also good for opening things, which is why I’m including it.”

“Isn’t that the opposite of what we’re trying to do?”

“Precisely,” Castiel says, and takes a pestle from the bag, “which is why we’re not using dried raskovnik seeds. The liquid these are soaking in is made from wormwood, which inhibits ill nature. I prepared these seeds in my old neighborhood after a string of break ins. Essentially, any lock that would otherwise be opened will seal itself at the barest hint of violent or unlawful intent.”

“And you said you weren’t a wizard,” Dean says.

“Shut up,” Castiel says, but he’s half smiling as he crushes the seeds in the mortar. When he’s done, he returns the jar of seeds to the bag and takes out a bag of what Dean still suspects is weed.

“This is dried nettle,” he says.

“That what you’ll tell the cops?”

“No, I’ll tell them it’s oregano. Are you going to let me explain?”

“Go on, go on,” Dean says, kneeling down beside him.

“Nettle sends curses back where they came from,” he explains, shaking some out into the bowl, “it’s the most important aspect of the counter spell I’m using.”

“So you mix this all together, and then--”

“Then,” Castiel says, tapping the pestle on the edge of the mortar, “I trace it over the sigil that was used by the original caster, moving counter clockwise.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it,” Castiel says, smiling over at him.

While Castiel adds the last few ingredients and paints the mixture over the sigil, Dean stands at the window, watching the light. Waiting for it to flicker and fade. It doesn’t. His stomach sinks when Castiel comes to stand beside him, and he can see his frown in his periphery.

“It didn’t work,” Castiel says pointlessly.

“Maybe he’s got another control point?” Dean offers, “like, a back up? He’s always been paranoid. It’d make sense.”

“Perhaps,” Castiel says, “though where else would it be? There was nothing else at the old docks, and he’s certainly not using his boathouse.”

Looking out into the empty backyard, Dean sees tracks left behind by John’s boat trailer. Deep grooves in the damp ground. The boat isn’t there.

“I’ve got an idea,” Dean says, but Mary rushes into the room before he has a chance to say it.

“There’s someone in the basement."

  
  



	18. A Place Where Nothing Moves

At the top of the stairs, Dean finds Sam with his ear pressed to the door and John’s fire poker gripped tightly in his fist. He glances up when he hears them approaching.

“We could hear someone shouting,” he says, jiggling the locked door, “but they stopped.”

“Let me,” Castiel says, stepping forward, and digs his wallet out of his pocket.

For a second, Dean thinks he’s going to do that stupid credit card trick that people are always doing in the movies; he’ll just jiggle his AMEX around in the crack near the handle and magically break the lock. Instead he takes out a tiny ziplock bag like the kind banks keep coins in, shakes a couple of dried raskovnik seeds into his hand, and… magically breaks the lock.

“Harry Potter, eat your heart out,” Dean mutters, and Castiel sends a mildly amused look over his shoulder.

When Dean leads the way downstairs, all humor vanishes in an instant.

There’s a woman, a praenuntia, tethered to the wall and by a sigil on the ground, and she’s practically blue from cold. She’s skin and bone, barely alive. Dean’s stomach turns at the sight.

Chunks of her hair have been cut away--presumably used in some spell judging from the stench that filled the house when they first opened the door--and her arms are scarred from wrist to shoulder, dark patches of dried blood where she’s been bled over and over, whenever more was needed.

When Dean steps off the bottom step and into the light, the woman flinches away.

“No more,” she begs, staring at the ground and shaking her head desperately, “please, _please_ , no more. I’m nothing like them. I swear. I _swear_. He’s not--please. Please. Please.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Dean says shakily, lifting his hands to show he’s not armed, “he’s gone. We’re gonna help you, okay?”

Looking up, the woman seems to focus on him for the first time, her eyes drifting from Dean to the three people crowded behind him.

“He’s gone?” she asks, throat spasming, twitching.

“He’s gone,” Dean repeats, stepping forward again, “What’s your name?”

“Hester,” she says.

“Okay, Hester. My name’s Dean. I’m gonna come untie you, alright? I’ll untie you, and then I’ll break the sigil, and we’ll get you some help.”

She nods, and with that he crosses the room. Hester lets out a whimper, sagging visibly as Dean stoops to untie the ropes that bind her wrists. When it’s done, she can barely stand, and Mary crosses the lines of the sigil to help Dean lower her to the ground.

“He took Inias,” she says weakly, clutching at Dean’s arm.

“What?”

“Another… he had another praenuntia here. Down here with me. His name was Inias.”

“And he took him?”

“About two hours ago. He’s going to feed him to the light,” she says, and chokes out a sob, bringing her hand up to press over her mouth as if she might be able to drag the words back in, make them less real.

"The others?" Dean asks, the words almost sticking in his throat.

She nods.

"He told us," she says, her voice tremulous, "he said Azazel was the first he killed, and there were... there were many others. Urim. Ion. Rachel. Lilith. I knew Rachel, and she was good, but Lilith and Azazel were monsters. He thought we... he thought we were all--"

Hester is barely breathing, choking on her own words, and Mary hushes her.

“Don't try to speak. An ambulance is coming, you're okay now," she says kindly, before turning to Dean. “You and Cas should get out of here. Find John before he makes this worse.”

 

* * *

Sam’s car takes corners like it was built for the goddamn freeway, and the whole way down to the docks Castiel grips the glove compartment like it’s a life line, the bowl of sludge for a second attempt at a counter spell wrapped in a grocery bag and held steady as possible in his lap.

Dean doesn’t speak once. His head is racing, trying to figure out how exactly he came to be racing to stop his dad from basically killing a guy when a few months ago his biggest concern was which color to paint his boat, and he still doesn’t quite know what he’s supposed to do when he gets there. Because it’s down to him, he knows it is. Castiel can’t come out there, not with the light still burning. Dean’s on his own. He’s got to do this on his own. Shit. _Shit_.

“Breathe, Dean,” Castiel says, letting go of the glove compartment to rest his hand on Dean’s knee, and Dean does. Sucks in a breath and loosens his deathgrip on the steering wheel.

When they reach the docks, John’s boat is nowhere to be seen. Dean’s not surprised. He hasn’t seen his old man using the ramp here in months. More likely than not, he’s been using the one at the disused docks.

But when they get to the boathouse, Dean hesitates at the door, nerves overtaking him. He glances at Castiel.

“What if he’s in there?” he whispers, “what am I supposed to do?”

“Try and reason with him,” Castiel says, though he looks just as unsure.

The boathouse, though, is empty, with no sign of John having been here since they left. Cutting across the room, heading toward the door leading out to the wet slip, Dean looks at Castiel over his shoulder and freezes.

“What if he comes back?” Dean says, “what if he comes here while I’m out there looking for him, and he finds you?”

Castiel shakes his head.

“You saw what he did to Hester,” Dean says, suddenly more scared than he thinks he’s been yet, “and he knows we were here. He saw you here. Cas, he saw you.”

“I can hide someplace else,” Castiel offers, digging his cell from his pocket, “I’ll call Charlie, have her come pick me up. But we can’t waste any time. If he hasn’t already thrown Inias into the rift, he can’t be far off. Dean, we need to stop him.”

“I can’t do it,” Dean says, shaking his head, “I’m… he’s my dad, Cas. How do I even… he’s never listened to me. Why would he start now?”

Shoving his cell back into his pocket, Castiel steps forward and kisses him hard on the mouth. When he pulls back his eyes are shining, and he’s slipped the keys to the Meridian out of Dean’s pocket.

“It’s going to be okay,” he says, and turns, running for the door.

By the time Dean’s registered what just happened, he can hear the boat’s engine starting up, and he tears into the wet slip to see it pulling away. He jumps before thinking and barely manages to land upright.

From the helm, Castiel looks over at him.

“For someone who didn’t want _me_ doing anything stupid,” Dean says, breathless, “this is pretty fucking hypocritical.”

“Put a life vest on,” Castiel replies, and without argument, Dean does.

 

* * *

They’ve only been moving for a few minutes when the rain starts. Massive, icy drops that have the entire deck soaked within seconds. With his vest buckled, Dean moves up behind Castiel to wrap his arms around his waist.

“You can head inside if you want,” he says, “I can do this.”

But Castiel leans back against him, breathing steady, and the rain eases back to a light drizzle.

“I’m okay,” he says, and holds Dean’s arms in place with his palm before returning his hands to the controls.

It happens again shortly after; the wind picking up, the rain growing heavier, and Dean presses a soft kiss to the back of Castiel’s neck. It dies back down.

Again and again, Castiel’s control slips, getting more frequent the closer they get to the light, and each time Dean gives him something else to focus on. A kiss. A squeeze of the hands. Something whispered low and sweet.

When he feels the tension in his shoulders remain even after the rain fades back, he remembers the beginning of The Ether Bright and starts to sing. Soon, Castiel is singing with him. They only stop when they see a dark shape form ahead, out beyond Steeple Island but before the light.

“Is that--”

“Dad’s boat,” Dean confirms, and Castiel squeezes his hands where they rest on his stomach.

“We’ll work it out,” he says, more confident than Dean feels by far, “we’ll get through this.”

 

* * *

They’re about two hundred yards away when they see John dragging someone out from the cabin to the edge of his boat. Reaching past Castiel, Dean pushes the Meridian as fast as she’ll go, and the engine whines in protest.

They can make him out when they get closer.

Inias is thin, pale and near unconsciousness judging by how he staggers, and his face obscured by a dark bag like the one the other hunters had used on Castiel. Dean doesn’t doubt it’s been marked with sigils. Something to weaken him. To make him powerless.

When John gets him to the edge, he looks up to see them coming and pulls the bag from Inias’ head, and the storm that comes is instantaneous. Clouds tumbling and rolling, rain ripping from them in sheets as a sound like a building collapse roars above them. The ocean swells. The wind pushes them, makes the boat lurch.

Dean’s glad he’s wearing the live vest.

“Dad!” Dean screams through the wind, the pouring rain, and staggers to the bow, grabbing hold of the railing and waving his free arm in desperation, “Dad, stop!”

Holding tightly to Inias, John stares over at him and shuffles the struggling praenuntia closer to the edge.

They’re less than a hundred feet away, now, the light to their left, John right ahead of them at it’s edge, and Dean turns to see Castiel leaning heavily forward, gripping his head with his hands.

“Shit,” Dean says, making his way back to the helm as fast as he can as the boat lurches violently to the side under the brunt of another wave.

“I can’t--” Castiel is saying when he reaches him, “it’s too--”

He’s shaking his head, gritting his teeth, and his nose is bleeding with the effort to force the storm to stop, the winds to calm, the rain to ease, but Dean can’t comfort him. He needs to stop the boat before they collide with John, or worse, head straight into the pillar of light.

He takes the control into hand, steering them slightly to the right, and once their trajectory gives them the leeway he needs he cuts the engine. Drops the anchor.

They stop twenty feet from John’s boat, and with every lurching wave they gain a few, lose a few. John is staring at them, and Dean hardly recognizes him. He’s drenched in salt water, bundled up in a dark raincoat, and when he looks at Dean there’s violence in his eyes.

“Dad,” Dean shouts, “please. Listen to me.”

He makes his way back to the railing, and John looks over at him, livid.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Dean calls, “please. If you throw him in the rift is just going to get bigger. It’s not too late to stop. Just let me--”

“I know,” John says, and lifts Inias’ head by the hair to show Dean his face, “you think I’d be anywhere near this _thing_ if I didn’t need to be? I know what I’m doing. This is just the beginning, Dean. Don’t you see? The bigger the rift gets, the stronger it’s pull. More of these parasites will come, and more of them will die.”

“And you’ll let worse things, actual _dangerous_ things out in the process!” Dean says, “you’re not helping, Dad. You’re making things worse.”

“You don’t think these things are dangerous?” John asks, and laughs, a bitter thing that makes Dean’s stomach turn to lead, “son, you never were the brightest kid, but even this seems simple enough for you to grasp.”

He gestures around them at the storm.

“Look what this one’s doing right now,” says, then points toward Castiel, who’s leaning heavily against the helm, his whole body curled into a knot of tension, “and I don’t see him helping you any.”

“Because of the fucking spell you and your friends put out here!” Dean shouts back, “Jesus, Dad. Those were the guys that tried to take Sam. You realize that?”

“You mean the hunters your boyfriend there killed?” John snarls, “the only contact I had with those amateurs was when I told them to get out of town, and then when I cleaned up your mess. They’re in there, you know. Humans don’t work quite as well as praenuntia but y’know, every little bit helps.”

Dean just stares at him, fear and sickness rolling in his gut as the storm rumbles.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks.

“Same reason I always have,” John says, and Dean frowns, “only difference is now I’ve found a way to do it on a larger scale. Wipe out the species instead of the individuals. The old way was alright for a while, but all that moving, all that road time… it was a real pain in the ass.”

Suddenly, their years of moving from coastal town to coastal town, all of John’s long absences and injuries Dean assumed were from bar fights, all make sense. He’s been doing this for years. Since Mary and Sam left. He’s been killing praenuntia. Killing people.

Dean lived with him his whole childhood, and the guy's a killer. He thinks he’s going to be sick. The water rises again, swells and crashes against the boat and Dean grabs hold of the railing more tightly, squinting out into the rain.

“Please,” he says again, though he knows it’s pointless, “please just stop.”

“And let these things keep destroying lives?” John shouts back through the rain.

“Mom and Sam are _fine_. They’re here, in Jackpine Harbor. Back on shore."

“That’s not Mary,” he snarls.

“They are! I saw them, they’re--”

“That _thing_ infected her,” John spits, “it ruined her. Made her a monster. And Sam… he was never human.”

“How can you say that?”

“It’s the truth.”

“He’s your son!”

“ _You’re_ my son,” John says, “that… he’s no son of mine. I see him, I’ll kill him too.”

With that, he finally shoves Inias overboard, and Dean shouts, but it’s useless. The praenuntia hits the water and scrambles in it, his face haunted and horrified as he swims toward the light, unable to stop from dragging himself into it.

All it takes is a single hand touching the edge, and he’s pulled in completely. For a second, nothing happens. But then his body shatters, and floats up, and a chasm appears. A dark funnel of nothing stretching down into the water and up into the light as his soul is ripped to shreds, torn and thrown like paper in the wind, and as he stares up at it Dean wonders what will happen first.

If they'll all be sucked in with him, or if something else will crawl out.

But the chasm collapses in on itself, pulling down to a single point, and with a silent pulse it expands. Rushes out like an explosion. The pillar of light billows out, growing by ten feet, and John barely has a chance to scream in shock--high and short and terrified--before his boat is engulfed. The silence that follows is worse. Heavy. Bearing down on Dean like a physical weight as he stares at his father's face, frozen in horror in the light.

He goes the same way Inias had, and with him, the boat crumbles. Both flaking to pieces, dissolving in silence. All at once, a hand catches around Dean’s own, and he turns to see Castiel wild-eyed and frantic, pulling him toward the other side of the boat.

“Dean, it’s going to expand,” he says, and he can barely stand, but he’s tugging, dragging Dean away, “we’re too close.”

Finally, Dean’s legs get the memo, and he runs, slip slides across the soaked deck to leap from the back of the boat with Castiel, and together they swim, pushing against the waves. When they stop, both heaving for breath, freezing and gasping in the icy water, Dean looks back to see that dark funnel stretching, pulsing, pulsing before it caves in. But this time there’s sound.

A great rending screech like a chainsaw hitting metal, tearing and roaring, and with a blinding flash it consumes itself, taking the light with it.

The water where the light had been begins to move again, rocking waves, far calmer than the ocean had been before, and in a daze they swim back to the Meridian.

 

* * *

“What just happened?” Dean asks, his teeth chattering as he pulls Castiel the rest of the way onto the deck, and Castiel wraps his arms around himself, staring at the place where the light had been.

“The control sigil must have been on the boat,” he says after a moment, looking at Dean, “when he was… when the boat was torn from existence, the sigil ceased to be, so the spell did, too.”

Nodding, Dean just stares at the empty space. He swallows, hard, and wipes the water from his face.

“We should dry off,” he says, but he thinks his voice sounds strange, distant. Castiel takes his hand.

“Come on,” he says, and pulls Dean inside.

 

* * *

Dean doesn’t remember laying down, but he opens his eyes and he’s in the cabin, his back to the wall as the engine rumbles noisily, Castiel driving them back to shore. He’s in his old clothes, the ones he’d left in here on Friday night, and he doesn’t remember that, either. Can’t remember much of anything after seeing his dad’s face locked in a scream, breaking into pieces and floating into nothing.

For the entire trip back to shore he lays on his side and stares into space. His eyes are dry. He remembers to blink.

“We’re here,” Castiel says, and he looks up to see him standing in the doorway, reaching out a hand. Dean takes it. It’s warm. Everything else feels cold.

When he steps onto solid ground, he still feels as though he's swaying, and Castiel's arm around his waist is the only thing keeping him steady.

"I'm sorry about your father," Castiel says quietly, walking with him up toward the street, and Dean grits his teeth. Shakes his head.

"I think I lost him a while ago," he says.

Castiel smiles sadly, leaning in to kiss his temple, and Dean’s eyes water.

"That may be so, but you've got your family, now," he says, and runs a hand through Dean's hair, the gesture making Dean's unsteady breath a little calmer.

"How about you?" Dean asks, and Castiel smiles gently.

"You've got me, too."

It's just the beginning, Dean knows, but he feels safe. Hand in hand they head up toward the street where Sam and Mary are waiting, and for the first time in seventeen years, Dean's mother wipes away his tears.

  


  


**Author's Note:**

> For a long time, this fic was little more than a vague mental image of a light on the horizon. I knew there would be boats. I knew there would be birds. I knew the storms would come, and that the elements would play a part, but it took a lot of time to figure it all out. I hope you all enjoyed reading it as much I enjoyed writing it :)
> 
> Here's a couple of quick things!
> 
> 1\. Jackpine Harbor is a fictional town created for the purposes of this story, though the land is based on parts of Mt Desert Island in Maine. I have not yet visited this particular part of the world, though I spent a great deal of time digitally walking the streets of the coastline on Google Streetview and reading up on the flora, fauna and commerce of the area, so hopefully I didn't make any huge mistakes.
> 
> 2\. Because I’m a Grand Master Procrastinator, I wrote the majority of the fictional short novel “The Ether Bright” and the equally fictional books “Praeco Tempestatum” (The Herald of Storms) and “Praenuntia“ under the guise of worldbuilding when I was meant to be writing the actual fic. So, if fictional pseudo-scientific reference books (including some truly pitiful scientific illustrations by yours truly) or a short story about a supernatural sailor sound like the sort of things you’d like to read, let me know in the comments and I’ll try to finish/polish them off enough to post.
> 
> Thanks again for reading, and please take the time to comment on the art master post! I’ll see y’all at the next Big Bang...
> 
> \- Cass


End file.
